


Your Last Mistake

by Ludwiggle73



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Elementary School, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, Autism, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Forbidden Love, Foster Care, Friendship, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, POV First Person, Period Typical Attitudes, selective mutism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-05-27 14:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 47,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15026567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: "Four kids, a fairly small class, but the smaller the better. A silent boy, a loud boy, a sexual tadpole, and a Wunderkind.. . . Time to meet my class."[Complicated PruAus.]





	1. Chapter 1

_“Your best teacher is your last mistake.”_

_—Ralph Nader_

* * *

 

I love the first day of school.

Granted, when I was the student, I hated it with a passion. Who wants the freedom of summer to end? But now that I’m a teacher, I’m happy to be locked in a room all day. Is that weird? Maybe, but not when the room is my room.

I have the best room in the school. My tables are arranged in pods, not orderly rows. My chalkboard is covered in stickers and messy doodles, not equations and a strict schedule for each day. My room has its own attached washroom, a birdcage complete with resident canary, and a lock on both sides of the door.

By design, my room is its own world, set apart from the rest of the school. The higher-ups in the education system—in other words, suits who never see the kids—keep preaching about integration. One lady last year said, _It’s my dream to one day see all students learning together, regardless of special needs._ Wow. Is it also your dream to see someone in a wheelchair run a marathon? _Regardless of special needs._ How can you disregard them if special is right there in the name? I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with the kids in my room. I’m just saying—in my experience—kids learn better when they’re with people at the same level as they are. They don’t get discouraged, and the other kids don’t get held back.

Really, that’s what makes my room the best: there’s no pressure to be normal.

 

* * *

 

So, first day. As usual, I’m in an hour before the kids arrive so I can get a tentative plan for the day together—always leave room for improvisation, there’s my life advice—and then look through the files of my new class.

Arthur Kirkland’s file is by far the longest, full of notes from past teachers and psychologists. _Could write his name at age 3. Memorized times tables (up to 12) by age 6. Very bright, eager to master new ideas._ Sounds great, until you get to the psychologist comments. _Stopped making eye contact at 1 year. Dislikes hugging, kissing, physical contact of any kind. Heavily reliant on routine. Expelled from past school for becoming violent during a breakdown. Exhibits self-stimulation before manic episodes. Diagnosed with high-functioning autism at age seven._

My own little Wunderkind. I’ve worked with autistic kids in the past, but none that could be called high-functioning. Certainly none that got _expelled_ at the ripe old age of eight years old. I’ll have to keep an eye out for self-stimming, which could mean a lot of different things; I’m hoping it’ll be the non-sexual kind. These files could be a lot more specific.

Case and point, Francis Bonnefoy’s file. Only a few sentences. _Immigrated from France at age 5. Poor English skills. Frequently displays sexually inappropriate behavior._ What the hell am I supposed to expect from that? The brevity of the file is because he’s a foster kid, and foster kids are infamous for having iffy information on file. And for having files misplaced when they change workers or agencies. Is there a detailed account of his history written in French across the pond? Impossible to say.

Alfred Jones is the youngest, six years old. _Attention deficit disorder. Overly emotional. Impulse control issues._ I highly doubt this one’s as bad as the file makes him out to be. If a kid’s mind is going faster than the room he’s in, of course he’ll become emotional and destructive. Not rocket science. I’d probably be a psychologist, I think sometimes, if I didn’t love teaching so much.

Last but not least, Matthew Williams. Another foster kid with a pathetic file. _Speech issues. Poor social skills. Mute since age 5._ I have to read that over again. He’s seven now. He hasn’t spoken for two years? I would call that a bit more than a speech issue! I’ve done speech therapy before, but never for something that severe.

I sit back at my desk, looking over the files spread out in front of me. Four kids, a fairly small class, but the smaller the better. A silent boy, a loud boy, a sexual tadpole, and a Wunderkind.

The first day feeling: fear and excitement. I love—

A knock on my door.

Time to meet my class.

 

* * *

 

First in is Alfred, who is a blond-haired speeding bullet. As soon as I open the door, he shoots past me and gets acquainted with every table and chair by drumming his hands on them.

A youngish woman, the kind of lady you’d see bringing creatively iced cupcakes to a bake sale, offers me her hand and a weary sigh. “I tried to calm him down before we came in.”

I shake her hand, smiling. She must be too tired to care about my albinism. _Or maybe she’s just a nice person, you cynic._ “Don’t worry about it. He won’t be trouble.”

Behind me, Alfred has spotted the canary. He bends his elbows and starts flapping his wings, leaping around the room in a vain but admirable attempt to fly.

His mother looks dubious. “If you say so. Good luck.” She leans around me to call, “Bye now, Alfie!”

He barrels over to us, barely slowing down before he crashes into her; she falls back a bit, but hugs him with undeniable love and says, “Have a good first day, sweetheart.”

Then she’s gone, but—as is typically the case—I have no time to talk to my first student before my second one arrives. Francis walks in with a man whose mouth is twisted in such a way that I know, were he not in a school right now, he’d be smoking. He mutters something to Francis in French, then tells me, “I am his uncle. Only foster, no adoption. I know nothing about it.”

I stare at him. “About what?”

The man flicks a hand, fingers curled around an invisible cigarette. “You’ll see. It wasn’t me. His parents, bad people. Prison.”

And he just starts walking away! I grab his arm. “ _What_ wasn’t you? What did they do to him?”

He shakes his head. “Bad things. I don’t talk on them. Fresh start. Better to leave it behind.”

Behind me, Alfred is saying loudly, “Are you a girl or a boy? You got long hair, girls got long hair. What are you doing—TEACHER!”

I turn. Alfred is perched on top of a table, watching Francis throw of all his clothes until he stands perfectly naked in the middle of my classroom.

“Je suis un garçon,” he says stoutly, wagging his hips.

Alfred’s round eyes look owlish behind his glasses. Despite having my full attention already, he shouts, “TEACHER, HE’S NAKED! HIS THINGY IS OUT!”

I glance back at the doorway, but Francis’s uncle is gone. So I close the door and go over to kneel beside the boy. “Sorry to tell you this, but one of my rules is everybody has to wear a shirt and pants.”

Francis continues his dance, sensuous movements a child would never do without being taught. “Je suis _belle_.”

“Well, the good news is you can be belle with clothes on, too.” I hold up his shirt, hoping he’ll go along with it, but he ignores me. I wrestle him back into his clothing while he wriggles like a fish and gives lewd cries that make me glad for the soundproofing in the walls of my room.

“There. Isn’t that better?” I ask, a bit out of breath.

Francis shakes his head, hair falling in his face. “No.”

Alfred the owl is still staring in shock, so I hold out my hands. “Another rule is we sit on chairs, not tables.”

He hesitates, then climbs into my arms. He’s trembling, just a little; he’s used to being the most disruptive force in the room, not to mention the sudden sexuality Francis brought in. People ask me how it helps to have a bunch of troubled kids in the same room, and this is how: when one is worse than another, the latter often gets scared straight with minimal help from me. I make a mental note to address sexual health at some point this year, for everyone’s benefit, then tell Alfred, “It’s okay. No one got hurt. Are you alright?”

Alfred considers, then nods. I set him down. “Why don’t you two pick which pod you want? There’s one for each student in the class.”

Alfred looks startled, probably imagining an army of dancing French boys. “There’s more?”

Francis perks up. “Girls?”

“No girls. Two other boys.”

Speak of the devil, another knock on the door. As I approach, I hear faintly through the door, “Oh, _stop_ it, Arthur, of course this is the right room.”

I open the door. A woman in a smart business skirt and dark red lipstick stands beside a little boy in black shoes, grey slacks, white dress shirt with a red-and-blue striped tie tucked beneath a navy sweater. Both are so prim and proper and polished they look more like mannequins than real people, and I know they’re British before they even open their mouths.

“His nanny will drop him off in future,” the woman says with the epitome of a cut-glass accent; it’s definitely sharp enough. “We would have been here on time, but he needed to have a tantrum simply because he has a new school. He overreacts about everything, understand. We have little patience for the episodes, as he well knows.”

Arthur’s attention is on the ground, so I can’t see if his expression changes or not. With his head tilted downward, I can only just see the bright green of his eyes. I don’t know what it is about kids like him, but their eyes are always so fascinating to watch. Maybe it’s because their minds process things so differently, but their eyes view the world with a combination of fear and awe. So-called normal eyes take everything for granted.

“What do you do when he has an episode?” I ask, though I don’t really want to know.

“We put him in his room until he can conduct himself properly.” She checks her expensive watch. “I don’t have time for an interview. You’re welcome to make an appointment if you’d like to ask me anything else. I trust you have my contact information.”

I have some things I’d like to say to her, but they’re not questions. “Yeah, I do. Thanks.”

“Ta.” She clip-clops off without a word to her son.

Arthur stands alone in my doorway, spine stiff, little hands fisted at his sides so tightly his knuckles are white. Without a parent’s gravitational pull, his fear greatly outweighs his awe.

“Come on in,” I say, stepping aside. “Welcome to my room. I’m your teacher, and these are two of your classmates. Alfred and Francis. They’ve already chosen their tables. You can pick yours now.”

Arthur doesn’t budge an inch, just stands in the doorway and looks around the room. I follow his gaze, taking in the room through his eyes. Everything crooked or random to be more dynamic to the other kids is wreaking havoc in his mind. When you’re used to strict rules, straight lines, concrete routine, how do you move in the real world?

Alfred waves. “Hiya! You’re not gonna take your clothes off, are you?”

Arthur looks scandalized. “Of course not.”

“Okay good ’cause this other kid had his clothes off and his _thingy_  was out and everything.”

Francis nods, leering suggestively at Arthur.

Arthur shakes his head. “I’d prefer not to go in. I’ll stay out here, thank you.”

I kneel down in front of him. “I’m sorry, but you have to come in. But you don’t have to sit anywhere near Francis, alright? And I’ll make sure everyone behaves, don’t worry about that. Not everybody has good manners like you, do they?”

He shakes his head, eyes glued to the floor. “Mummy says public school is a zoo.”

“I bet she did say that. Tell you what, I’ll move your pod right up to the wall, how about that?”

Reluctantly, he nods and follows me inside, over to one of the remaining pods. They are made up of four small desks tied together at the legs, so moving them without untying is pretty much limited to dragging the whole beast at once. Anyone who’s ever been in a classroom knows that dragging one desk makes an obnoxiously loud noise against the tile floor. When you drag four tied together, it makes a hideous racket that normally has kids protesting with scowls or covering their ears. That’s what Francis and Alfred do.

Arthur, on the other hand, has a meltdown.

I only catch a glimpse of self-stimulation—his hands don’t cover his ears, they _beat_ at his ears—before he just collapses to his knees, wailing. It’s a very particular sound I’ve heard many times before. Not a scream, or a shout, but just a _wail_ , like an air raid siren. One prolonged note, held not to ask for help but to let off the pressure in his system. The cogs are jammed in the over-stimulated brain, and this is the only way to do a system reset.

When a child has this sort of episode, you really have two options. One, do what Arthur’s parents do and lock him up until he exhausts himself, which is despicable and allows him to potentially harm both his environment and himself.

Or, two: snuggle him.

I don’t let him get worked up any higher. Without hesitation, I wrap my arms around him, securing his own little limbs to his sides. His wail gets louder, more desperate, and he kicks wildly at me, but he’s just a twig so my only worry is hurting him as I slowly lower him to the floor and let some of my weight—not all of it, God, he’d suffocate—cover him. I’ve seen weighted blankets with metal sewn into the fabric that serve this same purpose. Something to anchor you down, to comfort you and show you that _You are okay. You are hidden, you are covered, you are warm and safe._ This is the shift: before Arthur was not in control, and he still isn’t, but now I am. The knowledge that someone has a handle on the situation is enough to bring Arthur back down again. His wail wavers, and then he falls silent.

“Teacher?”

I look up. Alfred is on top of the table again, terrified. Francis prances by, having taken advantage of the brief hysteria to remove his clothing for what I hope is the second and last time today. But Alfred doesn’t point to him. He points toward the door.

Matthew Williams stands in the still-open doorway, all by himself, alone. I don’t know how much of the episode he saw, but he doesn’t look afraid, just shy as he takes in Alfred, still perching on his pod like an owl; Francis, wiggling around the room like a belly dancer; Arthur, shaking beneath me like a leaf; and finally me, slowly standing up in the middle of it all and smiling like this is just par for the course. Because it is. More or less.

“Good morning, Matthew,” I say, helping Arthur to his feet. “Please sit at that pod over there, whichever desk you like. Alfred, please put your backside onto your chair. First warning. Francis, please put your body back into your clothes. First warning for you, too.”

They must hear the authority in my voice—or maybe Arthur just freaked them out enough that they’re open to suggestion—because they actually do what I say, though I have to help Francis tie his shoes. When they’re all settled, I step back and smile at them all. Ah, another year, and the excitement’s already begun.

“I’m glad to finally meet you all. I’m looking forward to having an awesome year with you guys. I prefer having fun to being bored, so I’ll do my best to make learning as fun for you as possible. Oh, but I’m getting ahead of myself. My name is Mr. Beilschmidt.” I can’t hold back a grin. God, I love the first day of school. “But you guys can just call me Gil.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You don't even wanna know how much talking to myself about elementary math problems I've been doing. Why is algebra easy and simple mental addition difficult? I need an intervention...

Some teachers say the first couple weeks of school are the most important, and I’m inclined to agree. This is the time when I learn how the children will interact with each other, with me, with the classroom. I learn what level they’re all at with reading, writing, arithmetic. They learn that I’m not someone to be afraid of, but I am someone to respect.

Same as every year, when kids do desk work, I circulate between the pods, giving assistance where I’m needed. Very quickly, a pattern develops. I can barely start talking to Matthew or Arthur before Francis starts complaining in French or Alfred cries, “Teacher, what’s this mean?”

“Alfred, I can’t spend all my time with you,” I eventually have to say. “If you can’t figure something out, skip it and we’ll go back to it when we have time.”

“But I don’t know _any_ of it,” Alfred whines, dropping his pencil on his desk and pouting. “I’m too dumb for math.”

“You’re not dumb.” I put his pencil back into his little hand. “Here, try your best, and I’ll be back in ten minutes to help you. Okay?”

He puffs out a sigh and flops his upper body over his desk, gazing glumly at the sheet of math problems in front of him.

I head over to Francis’s desk. “How are we doing over here?”

Surprisingly, he’s halfway done his sheet. The first section, simple addition, subtraction, and multiplication gave him little challenge, though I circle a couple of the multiplication questions for him to look at again. But now he’s on to the word problems, and therein lies the issue. They’re written in English, and as he tips his head back dramatically to tell me, “English is stupid.”

I sit down beside him. “What makes you say that?”

He rolls his eyes. “Because it _is_.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Well, I think it’s quite impressive that you can speak two different languages at your age. You must be really smart. Most adults in this country can’t speak more than one language. Even our principal can only speak English. So in that way you’re smarter than my boss. What do you think about that?”

Francis ponders it, twirling a strand of hair enough his finger. “I like being smart.”

“So if you could speak _and_ read two languages, wouldn’t that make you even smarter? Wouldn’t you like that?”

He tuts at me, stretching his arms over his head. “I _guess_ . . .”

“And my job is to help you get smarter. So we’ll make a good team.” I trail my fingertip under the words, reading slowly so he’ll understand how the words are pronounced. “ _Billy wants to start a farm. He has_ —”

“Two,” Francis says stoutly, proud to know his numbers.

“Yup, two, that’s right. _Billy has two chickens. If each chicken lays one egg each day, how many days will it take for him to have ten chickens?”_

Francis picks up his pencil and starts to draw chickens. Genuinely good doodles of chickens, first two parents and then four pairs of chicks. He circles the pairs, counts them, then sets his pencil down. “Four days.”

I smile. So the only thing holding him back, besides the mysterious sexual past, is the language barrier. That will make life a lot easier for him than a learning disability would. “That’s right, four days. Good job. Do you think you can try to read the next one on your own? I’ll be back to help you, if you need it.” I wink. “But I bet you won’t.”

Francis gives me a conspiratorial smile, like we’re in on a secret challenge. He winks right back at me, far flirtier than I would ever want to see from someone his age. “I’ll try.”

I head over to Arthur’s pod, as far from everyone else’s as it can get. He has his papers arranged at perfect right angles with the edges of his desk, his pencil perfectly parallel to it, and his hands folded neatly on his lap. He’d been watching the other boys, but when he sees me approaching, he looks down at his tabletop. He doesn’t trust anyone enough to sit back-to, so he squeezes in between the wall and the pod, in the far corner. Tucked away, like he’s hoping to be overlooked.

I sit down across from him. “Did you get stuck on a question?”

“No.” He pushes the worksheets toward me. “This is old work, Mr. Beilschmidt.”

I don’t know what to be more surprised about: the fact that he’s the first student I’ve ever had to pronounce my surname perfectly on the first try, or the fact that he finished all of his math work within fifteen minutes of receiving it. I check it over, and all his answers are correct. “What were you doing at your old school?”

“I was starting long division.”

Long division in third grade. “Did you like it?”

“Yes.”

“What made you like it?”

He shrugs. “It makes sense. It’s easy if you follow the rules.”

I look at him, head bowed as if praying despite the fact that we’re having a conversation, then look over at the other kids. Alfred is wiggling his legs under his desk and starting to fold his worksheet into a paper airplane. Francis is enthralled in doodling in the margins of his own worksheet, which isn’t productive but at least he has his clothes on. And Matthew, oblivious to us all, is slowly but surely working his way down his addition and subtraction.

I consider my options, Arthur’s options. I could give him work three grades above what he’s expected to be doing, and he could excel ridiculously in schoolwork and continue to fall behind in social skills. Or I could hold him back a bit—meaningless, really, when he’s already so far ahead—scholastically and help him and myself at the same time.

“Arthur,” I say, leaning closer to him. “I have a proposition for you. Do you know what that is?”

“Yes.” Of course he does.

“You’re already much further ahead than I thought you were. I think it would be better for everyone if you became less of a student and more of a teacher. What do you think about that?”

He actually lifts his head a little, looking at my chest, pale forehead furrowed. “I’m only eight.”

 _Well, your brain didn’t get the memo._ “I know. Don’t worry, you won’t be giving lectures.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “It’s just that Francis and Alfred are having trouble with their worksheets, and I think I’m going to need more than a few minutes with Matthew each day. So if they had both of us to help them, I think things would run more smoothly.”

Arthur looks over at Alfred, then over at Francis, uneasy. “I’d rather not.”

I nod slowly, sitting back. “I won’t force you. It’s your choice. But we would all be very grateful to you. I’m sure Alfred will be amazed at how good you are at math. And hey, maybe you can convince Francis that English isn’t stupid.”

 _That_ has his head snap up, even though his fiery gaze goes no higher than my chin. “He said English was stupid?”

“He certainly did say that.”

Arthur looks down at his desk, presses his lips together, adjusts the little cuffs of his old school uniform, then gets up and walks stiffly over to Francis. “Excuse me.”

Francis looks up, waves of hair messily framing his face. “What do you want?”

It’s hard to tell unless you’re looking for it, but Arthur’s gaze is on Francis’s hair, not his face. “I’m going to help you with your work.”

Francis scoffs. “You’re not a teacher. You’re just a kid.”

Arthur takes a deep breath. “Mr. Beilschmidt asked me to help you.”

Francis looks over at me. I nod at him, smiling.

Abruptly, Francis stands up and comes over to me, leaving Arthur standing alone by the desks. Francis leans in close to ask, “What is that for?”

I beckon him closer, whisper into his ear: “I think you might be able to help Arthur. He isn’t very comfortable talking to people, so maybe you can be his friend?”

Francis pulls back, arching an incredulous eyebrow at me—again, not an expression I’d expect from someone innocent—and says, “You want me to be friends with that boy?”

“Sure. Why not?”

Francis’s eyes widen. There’s no whispering now. “He’s _weird_!”

Wincing, I look over to Arthur. He hasn’t moved, but he’s looking down at the floor now, and his hands are clasped deathly tight behind his back, little fingernails digging so hard into his skin he must be close to breaking it.

“He is not weird,” I inform Francis. “And even if he is, there’s nothing wrong with being weird. Who would want to be the same as everyone else? That’s boring.” I stand up. “I want you to apologize to Arthur, and I want you to listen to him while he helps you with your reading.”

Francis looks up at me, eyes narrowed. This is a look I’ve seen many, many times. Testing. Challenging. If I show weakness now, that’s it. All hope is lost. I can tell, from the set of Francis’s jaw, that he’s done this with more teachers than just me. But I’ve fought the battle far more times than he has, so all I have to do his meet his gaze and raise an eyebrow at him.

Francis heaves a dramatic sigh and goes back to his desk. He sits down, picking up his pencil and not even looking up from his paper to mutter, “Sorry.”

To my surprise, Arthur doesn’t say anything. I move around to look at his face, and I see that he’s staring at Francis’s hair, hanging down like a messy curtain. Arthur is trembling so slightly that it seems more like he’s vibrating, and I realize almost too late that every molecule in his body is fighting not to break down over the fact that Francis’s hair is in his face.

I hurry to my desk. I don’t have any hair elastics—I have rubber bands, but I’m not going to put Francis through that kind of torture—so I grab the next best thing. I present Francis with a red ribbon. “Do you know how to tie up hair?”

He blinks. “Oui. Mama showed me.”

 _I wonder what else she showed you._ “Good, then you can help me.”

“Why?”

“I think it’ll be easier for you to work with it tied back,” I say, thinking on my feet. “It won’t get in your way.”

Francis looks skeptical, so I say, “Plus, it’ll look nice tied back,” and that has him rolling his eyes like _of course._ He pulls the hair back and I tie the ribbon round it. It’s not the worst ponytail in the world, but it’s far from the best. Still, it serves its purpose. Arthur lets out the breath he’d been holding, and all the tension leaves his body. I can’t imagine how much stress he puts on that little twig body of his. Very carefully, so as not to touch, Arthur sits down beside Francis and leans just close enough to read the paper. I watch them, Arthur leading Francis into the sentence then letting him pick up, then Arthur supplying sounds when Francis struggles. I smile. I’d worried Arthur would be too technical with his teaching and leave Francis far behind, but he’s perfect at it. _Of course he is,_ I realize. _This is school. School is his world._

I can’t even call that sad. School is my world, too.

Alfred is about to throw his paper airplane into the air. I go over and take it, unfolding his work sheet. “Here, just . . .” I can’t even tell how much of it he grasps, because over half of it has been left blank. I look over at Matthew, still working quietly, unbothered by the ruckus around him. Here is where it would be wonderful to have an EA, but the school board barely has the budget for art supplies, let alone an extra human being in the classroom. Plus, with only four kids, no one would take my request for help seriously. I’m unspeakably tempted to ask Arthur to teach Alfred, too, so I can have ten minutes with Matthew, but that’s too much pressure to put on him. I might work him up to that, maybe, if I have to. But for now, I’ll just have to wait.

Waiting has never been my strong suit.

 

* * *

 

When the kids come back in from lunch break, I’m waiting for them in the hallway. “I’d like Matthew, Francis, and Alfred to wait out here for just a moment. I have a surprise for you, but I need Arthur’s help to finish it.”

As I thought might happen, this draws protest from Francis and Alfred.

“Why do you need _his_ help?” Francis demands.

“That’s not fair,” Alfred says.

“No, it’s not equal,” I reply. “It _is_ fair. Sometimes they’re different.”

I leave the kids with that fortune cookie and take Arthur inside. All four walls, including the windows, have numbered envelopes stuck to them. Some high, some low, the order totally random. I watch Arthur carefully as he takes it in, but he doesn’t stim. He just stands stock still, eyes rapidly darting from envelope to envelope. I realize he’s finding them all, from 1 to 30. Once he knows where they all are, he calms down again and turns to me, gaze on my chest. “What’s this for?”

“For Alfred,” I reply. “This might be better for him, since he has so much energy. Instead of sitting at a desk, he has to run around to find the questions. And if he wants a hint, he has to run around some more.” Each envelope has an extra slip of paper that says _Need help? Check the back of Envelope 4!_ and so on. The system probably could have been sleeker, but I think it’s alright, considering the time frame I had to do it in. It’s probably a good thing I didn’t have time to make the envelopes more colorful; I doubt Arthur would appreciate that much visual noise.

“Oh.” Arthur looks around the room again, then blesses me with a nod as he returns to the desk beside Francis’s. “That makes sense.”

Thankfully, the Arthur Approved goose chase proves to be a success. Alfred scurries merrily around the room, racing himself and giving gleeful cries of, “Oh, now I get it!” when he reads the hints. I smile over at him, holding a finger to my lips just to remind him that there are students working. He puts his own finger to his lips, grinning from ear to ear. _Would you look at that, math class is fun._

At last, I get a chance to sit down beside Matthew. “Hey there. How are you doing?”

He looks up, smiling lightly at me.

I didn’t think he’d give in that easy, but it was worth a shot. Sometimes selective mute kids will drop the act if you catch them off guard in the right way. Not that I think Matthew is doing this for attention or anything like that; it’s just hard for the brain to actively break a habit, when it’s been going on for so long.

“Is the work too hard?” I ask.

He shakes his head, offers me his sheet. The math is all done, and he’s moved on to English work, which seems to be going better for him. For someone who doesn’t use his words, he’s good at spelling and punctuation.

I circle a couple math problems. “I want you to think about these two again, I think you did something in the wrong order there. But otherwise, that’s very well done. Good job.”

He smiles again, but down at his paper.

I watch Alfred jog by, then ask, “Can I ask you some questions, Matthew? Not math questions. Questions about your family.”

He shakes his head.

“You don’t want me to ask questions?”

He shakes his head again, then writes in the margin of his paper. _I have no family._

Yikes. Okay. Let’s not open any wounds, if we can help it. “Did you ever know your birth parents?”

He shakes his head.

Alright, different from Francis’s situation, then. “How many foster families have you had?”

Matthew counts carefully on his hands, then holds up seven fingers. One home for every year he’s been alive. I’m genuinely surprised he can actually do arithmetic and ELA; usually when kids are bounced around that bad, they end up—understandably so—too overwhelmed emotionally to excel academically.

“That’s quite a few,” I remark. “You’re really strong, to get through that. A lot of kids would act out, in your shoes.”

He lifts his shoulders up to his chin in a big shrug. Oh, how modest. I love kids like this. Too sweet.

“Do you like your foster family?” I ask. “The one you have now?”

He nods.

“Do you have any foster siblings?”

He nods again, writes for me _A brother and a sister._

“Oh, that’s nice. Are they older or younger?”

_Both._

“Does one go to school here?”

He nods. _My sister._

“What’s her name?”

_Michelle._

I’ll keep that in mind. This is what I mean by foster kids having poor files. They couldn’t even tell me that he has a foster sister going to the very same school I work in? Come on.

“Do you know their phone number?” I ask. What parent doesn’t drill their phone number into their kids’ head, just in case?

Matthew shakes his head. So maybe they don’t bother, when the kid can’t talk.

“Teacher! Gil!” Alfred is waving his worksheet in the air. “I finished!”

I smile. “Good job. Go back to your seat and get started on English. I’ll be over to see how you’re doing.”

Alfred looks a little disappointed that English doesn’t entail sprinting around the room, but he does as I asked. His body caught up with his mind for a while, so he’ll be content to sit still for a few minutes, at least.

I turn back to Matthew. “Do you like my class so far?”

He nods without hesitation.

“Do you like talking with your classmates?”

He almost nods, but stops, lips parted slightly in confusion. _Damn. Guess I won’t be tricking him into any confessions._ It would be a lot easier if he was only mute toward adults, but it seems his pitiful file wasn’t lying. He hasn’t spoken in two years—not where anyone can hear him, that is.

Carefully, I ask, “Do you remember the last time you spoke?”

He shakes his head. The happy light is fading from his pretty violet eyes.

 _Leave it for another day, Gil._ But I have to ask one more: “Do you miss it? Talking?”

Matthew looks down at his desk. His shoulders lift slightly, then drop, and I hear the faintest little sound as he sighs. Then, after a long pause, he nods sadly.

I gently put my arm around his shoulders, and he moves closer to me for a snuggle. I rub his back, but my guilt for stirring this sorrow in him is overshadowed by the fact that I just found out two very good things: Matthew misses talking, which means he probably wants to talk but just can’t bring himself to, and he can make sounds, which means there’s nothing seriously wrong with his vocal chords. I’m not a doctor; medical things are far outside my knowledge and ability. But, as far as I can tell, Matthew’s problem is entirely in his mind. He just needs to be helped, taught how to overcome it.

That, I can do.

 

* * *

 

At the end of the day, after Alfred’s mother has picked him up _(Mommy we did math and it was really fun and I ran all over and got almost all of them right!)_ , Arthur’s nanny has taken him home _(I taught one of the naughty boys how to read)_ , Francis’s uncle has come and gone _(Do you like my ribbon? Trés belle!)_ , and Michelle has turned up to walk Matthew to their foster home a block away, I head to the office. There are two secretaries, and both of them are talking on the phone whenever I look in. Sure enough, even though all the kids are gone, they’re both chatting away. One conversation sounds school-related, the other not so much. When they see me come in, the unprofessional conversation ends abruptly with a, “Sorry, I gotta go, I’ll call you when I get home.” She hangs up the phone, nearly tangling her flustered hands in the coiled cord, and smiles at me despite her sheepish flush. “What can I do for you, Mr. Beilschmidt?”

I don’t bother telling her to just call me Gil, because I think she’s got enough informality in her work life. _Careful, you’ll start sounding like Ludwig._ I offer her a scrap of paper. “Is this Matthew Williams’s phone number? I got it from his sister, but I just wanted to make sure it’s right.”

I’ve gone down enough rabbit holes trying to track down legal guardians over the phone. I don’t even like talking on the phone when I know for sure who I’m calling, let alone when it’s a stab in the dark.

She wheels her chair closer to read the numbers, then ducks under the desk to bring up a big—and I mean, big—binder labelled _Contact Information._ She flips it open to the end, for W, and runs her fingers down the page until she finds Matthew and Michelle. “Yep, looks right to me.”

“Thanks. Enjoy your evening.” I turn to go—and nearly smack right into a guy coming in behind me. “Woops! Sorry about that. Guess the whole eyes-in-the-back-of-your-head thing only works for kids.”

The man smiles faintly, adjusting his glasses. I’ve seen him in the halls, but I’ve never actually spoken to him. He’s Mr. Edelstein, the new music teacher, replacing the lady who retired last year. “Guess so. Is your class keeping you busy?”

“Yeah, pretty busy. They’re great.” It pains me to leave it at that, but I’ve learned my lesson. _Don’t rant about your class._ Something my brother has told me many times: when people ask about my class, they don’t want to know every fascinating, endearing detail. Whatever. It’s their loss.

Mr. Edelstein nods. “I only ask because I don’t think I’ve seen you once in the lounge.”

I shrug. “Well, I work while I eat.” Putting envelopes all over the walls and marking worksheets and rearranging the books in alphabetical order rather than by color to ease Arthur’s mind. And always thinking about new things I can do with the class, to keep them from getting bored—with the added restriction, this year, of not veering too far from routine for Arthur’s sake. I love a challenge. And speaking of which, “I was going to ask you, actually, if we could use your instruments sometime.”

Mr. Edelstein’s brow furrows. “You want them to have a music class?”

“Not so much a class,” I reply. “Just some fun.”

He looks uncertain. “I wouldn’t want them to break anything . . . I mean, a lot of the instruments are delicate.”

The assumption that my kids, simply by virtue of not being part of the mainstream student body, are disruptive and violent will apparently never end. “I assure you my students know better than to break instruments.”

He nods slowly. “Well . . . Alright. Do you have something I can write on?”

I offer him the scrap of paper. He looks confused at the number, but doesn’t ask, just flips it over and writes in a tiny, flowing hand before giving the scrap back to me. “Those are the slots when my room is empty. Come in anytime.”

I’ve never heard a more hesitant form of hospitality. I just smile at him and shake his hand—cold and long, thin skeleton fingers, a pianist’s hand—before heading out into the September air, armed with numbers and the pleasant tingle left in my palm from touching the elegant new music teacher.


	3. Chapter 3

September continues, and as the days get chillier, my room gets cozier. We establish our routine swiftly: deskwork, Arthur assisting Francis or Alfred as needed; discussion times, where we sit in a circle and talk about topics we pull out of a hat; storytime every other day, when I treat the kids to either a classic picture book or an always-popular anecdote from my time in Germany. And, of course, other activities sprinkled in as I find time or discover new things to do with the kids.

We decorate for autumn in a minimal way, to avoid over-stimulating Arthur. One day when it’s too sunny to stay in for storytime, I take the class outside. After I’ve read the book, we run around collecting the first of the fallen leaves, most of them a mixture of green, yellow, brown. We hang them around the room in little vaguely tasteful nosegays; my room has the faint, lovely scent of autumn. Matthew saves the reddest maple leaf for my desk. How could anyone say no to that?

In a so-called normal classroom of twenty or even thirty children, it’s almost impossible to get a group dynamic with everyone in the first month. But in my room, four children have to work to stay separate from each other—and believe me, Arthur does work at it, at first. Alfred and Francis quickly learn that he is not to be touched, after both of them have been smacked. (Arthur gets time-out for that, but he might as well be in it all the time, secluded in his corner.) Alfred gloms onto Matthew, who has no issue with touching. Francis spends some of his time with the younger boys, but increasingly focuses on Arthur instead. I suspect it’s because of Arthur’s age; Alfred isn’t one to have the more mature conversations Francis and Arthur prefer. It’s a bizarre duo of duos: Alfred talking almost nonstop and Matthew listening or smiling, Francis and Arthur speculating and bickering and rarely looking at each other.

It’s like watching the first flowers bloom in spring. Slowly but surely, the petals spread, and something beautiful comes out.

 

* * *

 

The one-month mark is when I like to do parent-teacher talks. Often, it happens without any direct effort from me. That is the case this year, with one parent. Four guesses.

“Mr. Beilschmidt.” Said in such a crisp English accent and imperious tone that even though she pronounced it wrong, she’s given me the impression that her way is actually the right way. They say rich people tend to be a little psychopathic, and in this case—well, I’m not a psychologist.

“Mrs. Kirkland,” I say. I’m at home, so technically I’m not working and I shouldn’t be taking business calls. But here’s a secret: good teachers are always working. “I was going to get in touch with you to arrange time for an informal parent-teacher talk. You must have read my mind.”

“I am not calling for pleasantries,” snaps Mrs. Kirkland. “In fact, what I’m calling for is most unpleasant.”

After all these years, my mind still spews worst-case scenarios. Arthur had a meltdown at home and really hurt himself. Arthur has taken ill—ridiculous, for it to happen in the three hours since I last saw him—and can’t come to school anymore. The family is moving away. (Not a worst-case scenario for anyone but me. Leaving kids before our journey is complete, for whatever reason, and almost always never seeing them again—the lack of closure kills me every time.)

“Arthur tells me you have stopped teaching him,” says Mrs. Kirkland. I can just picture her, shoulders arched like a cat’s back, manicured nails like claws on the receiver. “He tells me you have him playing professor to the disturbed!”

I wrestle with her logic for a moment. She doesn’t know the other kids beyond Arthur’s descriptions of them, so she’s mostly assuming they’re disturbed because they’re in my class. Which Arthur is part of, so he should be considered disturbed too, right? And really, when Arthur’s in his sensory overload mode, he’s the most disturbed of anybody in the room. But of course I can’t say that to her.

“He helps me out sometimes,” I tell her carefully. “He’s much further along than most children in his grade. He’s further along than most grades in the school, to be perfectly honest. He could probably get by in a middle school environment, academically.”

“Pre _cise_ ly,” Mrs. Kirkland hisses. “And you think that’s an excuse to hold him back? If he falls behind because you can’t do your job—”

“Mrs. Kirkland,” I say, because I can only listen to so much of this. “I wouldn’t be getting paid if I couldn’t do my job. I assure you Arthur will not be falling behind. He’s excelling in academics, but his social skills are lacking. I’m sure you understand that Arthur will never be as socially fluent as you or me”—here’s where you can make your joke that someone like her is hardly socially fluent—“by virtue of his diagnosis. But it’s important for him to build his skills now, while he’s young. Youth is when it’s easiest to learn, after all.”

She makes a disgusted noise. “Arthur is a prodigy. His last analyst told me he could grow up to work on space engineering. He could be one of the most brilliant minds of our time.”

“And how will he feel,” I say, as gently as I can under these conditions, “when they call him onstage to get his awards and he has a breakdown from all the lights and the noise of the applause?”

She’s silent, for so long I expect to hear the beeps of an ended call. Then, in a low voice, she says, “His father said public school was a mistake. I should have listened to him.”

“Mrs. Kirkland,” I say quickly, before I ruin everything, “I’ll give him more challenging work. He’ll finish the year with long division.”

“And a _middle school_ level book report,” she says, like we’re making a black market deal. “For his portfolio.”

I can only imagine what they were like when he was a baby. They probably didn’t count his first word until he said it in proper received pronunciation.

“Division and book report,” I say, even though it feels like I’m selling my soul—and Arthur’s—to the devil.

“Excellent,” she drawls, the cat with the cream. “A good evening to you, Mr. Beilschmidt.”

“And the very same to you, Mrs. Kirkland.”

I hang up, and let out a long breath. _Jesus._ I don’t drink on school nights, but . . .

_Jesus._

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t take long before I realize our discussion times are unfair, for no reason but the obvious: Matthew can’t discuss. He listens intently the whole time, never fidgets or distracts others (which is more than I can say for Alfred or Francis). He even laughs when someone says something funny, but it’s peculiar laughter. He grins and shakes, but no sound comes out beyond his breath. I know he can produce sounds, from that soft sigh during the first week of school. There’s a shell wrapped tight around him, keeping his voice in. I need to bring it out.

I don’t want to get him reliant on writing—then he won’t try to speak, if there’s an emotionally easier alternative—but it’s good for the short-term. So I borrow a little handheld chalkboard from one of the fourth grade teachers ( _we use it for mental math, I didn’t think your kids did that_ ) and present Matthew with it, plus his own personal chalk and eraser. He takes the gift, violet eyes round with awe.

“Cool!” Alfred’s grabbing for the chalk immediately. “Lemme draw something! Can I have one of these, Teacher?”

“No,” I reply. “And please give Matthew his chalk back. He needs it, so he can talk to us. How would you feel if you couldn’t talk?”

Alfred looks horrified. I almost laugh. The classroom would definitely feel a lot emptier without Alfred’s constant soundtrack.

And when I say constant, I mean constant. It’s a good thing my activities are called _quiet time_ and _quiet reading_ , because if they had silent in the name I’d have to do some rebranding. Alfred is always making some sort of noise. Talking. Whispering. Singing. Humming. Drumming on his desk. Tapping his pencil. Half the time, he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. “Alfred, stop humming,” I’ll say, “other students are trying to work.” And he’ll sit up like a meerkat, the bright face of the innocent: “I was humming?” I can’t punish things that can’t be helped. So I just have to say, “Try not to distract your classmates, okay?” And, when he starts absent-mindedly tapping his pencil against his desk, I think, _Well, at least he hasn’t learned to whistle yet._

The noise isn’t his most distracting problem. He cannot stay in his chair for twenty minutes. He simply cannot. It is a fact of nature, as unrelenting as the Law of Gravity. In a normal classroom, he’d be forced to wriggle and writhe, suffering until he acted out and got in trouble, which would only be a reward at that point: a break from the boredom. So I let him have regular breaks. “Read two pages of your book, and then you get two laps around the room.” On top of that, Alfred has basically declared a monopoly over the pencil sharpener. If any pencil in the room is even slightly dull, he’s on his feet. “I’ll sharpen that for you!” All of the spare pencils in the cup on my desk have been seen to, but that doesn’t stop him. “You offered to sharpen them yesterday, too, but they’re still sharp from last time. Thank you, though, Alfred.” He puffs out his chest. “I just figured I’d check. I’m a real good sharpener. Prolly I’m the best sharpener in the class.” I ruffle his hair; his cowlick dances. “Well, you’ve definitely had the most practise, that’s for sure.”

 

* * *

 

“Alfie! No cookies now, you’ll be up all night if you have sugar. No buts! You heard me! I’m sorry, Gilbert.”

I let my kind smile show through my voice. This is the third interruption to my call, but, “It’s quite alright, Mrs. Jones.”

“He always gets hyper after . . . well, he always gets hyper.” She sounds so fond, I wish all of my students could have parents like her. “Anyway, what were we talking about?”

“How hyper Alfred is,” I say, and join her in a comfortable laugh. “I’ve been having him do a lot of physical activity during class, and I’m wondering if he gets exercise at home?”

“Well . . .” She sounds a bit guilty. “I want to say yes, but he does spend a lot of time watching TV. He’s really good at it, too; he’s always watching at least two shows at once. I don’t think he’s ever seen a commercial.”

“Does he have trouble getting sleep?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

“Oh, you have no idea,” she says, fervent. “It’s like pulling teeth, getting him to stay in bed. And then, in the morning, it’s almost impossible to get him out of bed. That’s the only time he’s calm, but it’s more like sluggish. Like he’s been hibernating.”

“He’s definitely not the only case like this,” I tell her. “I would recommend at least an hour of exercise, maybe when he gets home from school? Or after dinner. It’ll help him get to sleep. And it’s just good for him in general.”

She’s tapping something, maybe her fingernail, on the receiver. _Like mother, like son._ “He has been asking his dad to teach him to play soccer.”

“Sounds like a good time,” I say. “Maybe you could join him.”

She laughs generously. “Oh, mercy sakes,” she says, sounding twice her age, “I’m not sporty like them. I’m content to watch. But I’ll talk to my husband about it. Thank you for the advice!”

“You’re welcome,” I say, smiling again. “Thank you for your son.”

 

* * *

 

My hope to improve Arthur’s social skills with his tutoring is a dubious success through the first month. Success because it does get him talking, and dubious because the talking he’s doing is actually arguing.

It happens the same way every time. I’ll be helping Alfred or Matthew or working on something at my desk. I’ll hear, in the back of my mind, Arthur and Francis talking. It gets louder, slowly enough that I don’t notice until out of nowhere Arthur cries, “It is _not_!” and then they’ll quickly devolve into a shouting match if I don’t intervene. The first time, I hurried over, expecting Arthur to have a breakdown. Instead, he just ducked his head and mumbled an apology along with Francis. Not over-stimulated, just having a passionate conversation and carrying on like normal again afterward. I mark that down, I’m so pleased. _Gaining self-control._

Francis is, as I should have known from the first day, an excellent catalyst to improve one’s self-control. Patience, especially. Rarely does he take his clothes off, though there are a few days where he goes shirtless until Arthur draws any attention to it. ( _Mr. Beilschmidt, will you make him clothe himself, please?_ ) Instead, Francis chooses to bring controversy through words. For every humorous anecdote I have, he has twice as many lewd ones. Hardly any are appropriate for high school, let alone elementary.

One morning, during discussion circle, Alfred announces his aunt is getting married in November.

“You know what that means,” says Francis, wiggling his eyebrow.

“Sure do,” Alfred agrees, beaming. “A big cake! And bubbles at the wedding! I was at a wedding before and they gave the kids bubbles especial.”

Matthew smiles wistfully, but I don’t know if it’s for the idea of a wedding or of bubbles.

“No.” Francis rolls his eyes. “Don’t you know what happens on wedding nights?”

“Francis,” I warn, but it’s too late.

“No, what?” Alfred demands, peering curiously behind those thick glasses of his.

“They have sex,” Francis says, savoring the word. That right there, saying it like a satisfying weapon rather than just a fact of life, is the difference between maturity and a child who’s learned something before they were ready.

Matthew covers his mouth like _sex_ is the worst word anyone could ever say. Alfred stares at Francis, enthralled. Arthur’s gaze is, as usual, fixated on his lap, but he seems unperturbed by the topic.

“What’s that?” Alfred asks.

Francis opens his mouth, but I hold up a hand. “I’ll take it from here, thank you, Francis.” Here we go. Straight face, stick to the script. Other teachers would never dream of getting into this with kids so young, but other teachers don’t have kids like mine. Besides, in my experience, leaving kids in the dark only winds up hurting them. “Sex is what men and women do, usually after they get married, but not always. It’s how babies are made. I’m sure you’ve wondered where they come from.”

Alfred nods, looking like someone standing at the door to the promised land. Francis looks grumpy to have his fun stolen, and Matthew looks . . . well, it’s hard to see his face, half-hidden behind drawn up knees. The topic makes a lot of kids uncomfortable, usually because they think it’s bad or they’ll get in trouble for hearing it. I won’t go into as much detail, this time around.

“It’s nothing to be scared of, or ashamed of,” I say. “It’s good that you’re curious. That’s how we learn things. A baby is made when an egg gets fertilized by sperm. Girls have eggs, and boys have sperm. When a man and a woman have sex, the man’s sperm goes into the woman, where it fertilizes her egg. And, after nine months, she’ll give birth to a baby.”

Alfred blinks, several times, brow furrowed in concentration. “So . . . my auntie’s gonna have a baby?”

I smile. “Maybe. Maybe not. Sex doesn’t always make babies. Women can take pills so they don’t get pregnant. And there are other ways.”

The last sentence was my mistake.

“Like what?” Alfred asks.

“Like condoms,” Francis replies eagerly. “That’s a rubber thing a man puts on his cock.”

At that word, Matthew’s face crumples, but before I can comfort or scold, Arthur says snippily, “Don’t use foul language in school. It’s rude.”

“That’s right,” I say, holding open my arms. Matthew crawls over to sit beside me, and I rub his back, which is better and faster than any words I could find for him. “We can discuss these things, but only if we respect the topic, each other, and the rules of the classroom.”

I expect that to be the end of it, but oh no. Francis tips his head back, staring down at me, haughty. “Well, _you_ didn’t respect the topic. You said a man and a woman. I’ve seen girls having sex. _Together._ ”

Alfred’s eyes almost pop out of his little head, and I can see him struggling with this. I didn’t even tell him about reproduction anatomy; he probably doesn’t know girls have different parts. But the concept—two of the same, joined together—clearly strikes a chord with all of the boys. For a brief second, my heart warms, and I think this might be the first year I get to talk to my kids about this. I think maybe this is that change that I hear is happening, even though I see no proof of it.

Then Alfred says, “That’s not allowed. I know that because Daddy said. There’s a man at the end of my street and he has a big nice garden and Daddy says he’s a fruit and that means he breaks the rules and has sex”—this whispered—“with men.”

“I’ve seen that, too,” Francis boasts. “I saw two boys kissing, without shirts. Mon oncle says they’ll go to hell, like my parents.”

“Daddy says God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve,” Alfred says.

Matthew is trembling against me. I’m not in the mood for any more discussion, but I need to know this. The sick, tortured part of me needs to know. “What about you, Arthur? Do your parents talk about homosexuality?”

Arthur’s voice is a bit flatter than normal. “Not really. But they don’t like it.”

I look down at Matthew. He pulls back to look up at me, and I’m shocked to see unfallen tears sparkling in his eyes. “Are you alright?” I ask quietly, and he nods, sniffling. I bring him just a little closer. “Has your family told you any of these things?”

Matthew writes slow, wobbly letters on his little chalkboard. _My old one._

There. Now I know. And now is when I should just let it go. But the tears in Matthew’s eyes, the slight slump of defeat in Arthur’s normally stiff shoulders, and the ignorant hatred in Francis and Alfred—I just can’t bear ignoring it.

“I want you all to know,” I say, low and careful, “that there is absolutely nothing wrong with being gay. Being a boy who likes boys or a girl who likes girls is completely fine, no matter what some people say. Love is all the same.”

At that, every boy looks up at me. Alfred, sense of blind superiority vanished. Francis, surprisingly pensive, perhaps thinking back on all those things he’s seen and what they really mean. Matthew, tears drying before they fall, a gentle wave of relief soothing over him. And Arthur, he’s actually looking at me. I don’t believe it at first; only once he’s looked back at his lap do I realize. Those fascinating green eyes, bright with hesitant hope, met mine. Only for second. Maybe less. But it happened.

Francis might be disruptive, but if he’s the source of this—genuine connection—that’s a price I’m more than willing to pay.

 

* * *

 

That evening, I call Francis’s uncle. I waste no time on small talk, the Kirkland way. “I need to talk to you about Francis.”

I hear him exhale a puff of smoke. “Oui.”

“I just need to know what happened to him. I know you don’t want to talk about it. But just tell me why he talks about witnessing all kinds of sexual encounter.”

A long, long pause. I hear the dramatic strings of speech of a soap opera in French. Then he says, “His parents had a parlor.”

I can’t tell if that’s French or not. “What is that?”

Another long pause. “Whips. Chains. I don’t know English. People pay for sex. Watching. They record. Make movies.”

Now I’m the quiet one. I’ve never been to a place like that. But I know what to picture. And a little boy should be nowhere near it.

“He saw,” Francis’s uncle says. “They did not care.” A long drag of smoke. “Do not make me talk on it more.”

“I won’t,” I say, because I don’t want to listen on it more. “Thank you, for telling me. It’ll help me help him, I promise you.”

He doesn’t say anything else, just hangs up.

 

* * *

 

I’m expecting to be called to the principal’s office the next day, but I don’t expect it to happen first-thing in the morning, before any kids get here. The secretaries pause in their giggling to wave at me. I smile at them, as polite as I can through the fog of hairspray fumes. The principal’s office is no better; it’s not even eight AM and he’s already smoking.

“Gilbert,” he says. He sips his coffee. “Don’t sit down. I just want to give you a warning.”

He’s the type of man who wears suits everyday, but calls you by your first name under the illusion of casualness. It’s a power thing.

“A warning,” I echo. “For telling them the basics of reproduction?”

He narrows his dark eyes at me. “For telling them sodomy is normal.”

For the first time, I feel uncertain of what I’m doing here. Not with the kids—there’s always at least a little uncertainty with the kids—but here, as a teacher, working with these people, working for this man. They don’t understand my kids. They don’t understand me. I’m alone here.

“I never mentioned sodomy,” I say. “I just didn’t want them to subscribe to any ideology without considering the alternatives.”

“Some alternatives don’t need to be considered,” he snaps, mustache twitching. “If I have another parent call in saying their child came home talking about so-called gay love, we are going to have a serious problem.”

I have no choice. What am I going to do, leave my kids?

I incline my head. “We won’t have any problems, sir.”

“Good. Now get to work. And close my door behind you.”

I step out, turn to close the door, and turn back—walking right into Mr. Edelstein. He’s holding a mug, and a healthy splash of coffee sloshes onto the floor between us.

“Oh, God,” he says, jumping back from the mess even though his fancy indigo shirt is perfectly dry.

“We really must stop meeting like this,” I say. The coffee maker is right there, with a roll of paper towel sitting beside it. I grab the roll and start cleaning up the floor.

“You could apologize,” he says, eyes narrowing.

“Sorry,” I say, tossing the towel in a bin and straightening up again. He’s taller than I thought, the elegant music teacher, but he’s a twig like Arthur. “I’m thinking about taking the kids to your room next week.”

“I’ll be sure to wear a face mask,” he says, adjusting his glasses. A ring glints on his finger. “In case you fling more boiling liquid around.”

I smile. “Next time I’ll do something other than bump into you. Gotta mix it up. Keep you on your toes.”

Mr. Edelstein shakes his head. “I’m beginning to think you don’t eat in the teachers’ lounge because you’re a child yourself.”

“Well, sure,” I reply, still smiling. “Takes one to know one. Do you have kids?”

“What, me, personally?” His eyes go a bit wide. “No. Why?”

“I just wondered. I see you’re married.”

Mr. Edelstein looks down at his ring. A slight press to his lips tells me all the complicated things his words won’t. “We don’t have any plans to have children.”

I nod. “Me neither.”

“Oh.” He blinks. “You’re married, too?”

I laugh at the disbelief in his eyes. “No. Would it be strange if I was?”

He arches a fine eyebrow, just a little, with boldness I didn’t think he was capable of. “I don’t know. You tell me, Mr. Beilschmidt.”

The age-old stream of uncertainty: _Does he know? Is he like me? What does this mean? What does he want? What do I want?_

“Good morning, Mr. Edelstein!”

We turn. Michelle is standing outside the office window, waving to us. We join her in the foyer and she tells us, “Mama said to tell the office that Mattie can’t come to school today ’cause his tummy feels sick.”

“Oh.” The first sickness of the year. Poor Matthew. “That’s too bad. Tell him his class misses him, okay? And we hope he feels better tomorrow.”

She nods, waving again to Mr. Edelstein before prancing off to join her friends, who are just arriving. Which means my kids will be here any second, sans Matthew.

I nod to the music teacher. “Talk to you later.”

Mr. Edelstein raises his mug but doesn’t drink. “In the lounge?”

“Let’s not get crazy,” I call, already halfway down the hall. No more worrying about principals and discrimination and music teachers with wedding rings. I know who I am, in my room.

 

* * *

 

“Where’s Mattie?” Alfred asks when I close the classroom door.

“He’s home sick today,” I reply. “Hopefully he’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Alfred tips his head to one side. “Can we make him a card? That’s what my class last year did when a girl broke her arm.”

“Well.” I glance at the other boys. “What do we think? Do we want to make Matthew a card?”

“Yes!” cries Alfred. “I’ll draw lots of pictures on it and color all the letters different colors so it’s fancy and—”

“Okay, we know your thoughts on it, Alfred,” I say, smiling. “Let’s hear from Francis and Arthur.”

Francis shrugs, twirling his ponytail around a finger. “It’s better than schoolwork.”

 _Thank you, deviant._ “What about you, Arthur?”

He looks over at me, and by me I mean my general direction. “It would be polite.”

And so, it is decided.

 

* * *

 

Matthew does return to school the following day, and Alfred is first to greet him (after me). “Hi, Mattie! Do you feel better now?”

He nods, smiling lightly at Alfred. Not for the first time, I get the sense of a faint sadness hovering over Matthew. Is it just because he can’t talk? Or is it something more?

“Good! Guess what? We got a surprise for you!”

Matthew watches him scurry over to my desk, where the card has been stowed away. Francis protests, “We were going to do it all together!” so I have to say, “It’s okay, it doesn’t have to be a big production. Matthew knows we all put in effort.”

We all gather around (Arthur standing just out of arm’s reach) while Matthew looks at his card. It’s big, made of a leftover piece of Bristol board from the science fair last year. Alfred did indeed color all the letters differently, but not before Arthur painstakingly marked out where each one should go, armed with a ruler and a protractor I had to borrow from the fifth graders at the other end of the school. Then Francis and Alfred decorated it with doodles of puppies, kittens, ducklings, and other things from Alfred that I can’t name but are certainly colorful. Inside, produced by the group but penned by Arthur—his writing is neater than mine—is a note that says _Get Well Soon, Matthew! We love you!_ Beneath, it’s signed by all of us.

Matthew looks up at us, painfully shy. He bites his lip. He’s trembling a little, face reddening. I go to him for a cuddle, because I think he’s crying, but he slips out of my grasp. He runs over to the blackboard, picks up a piece of chalk, and jumps. He can’t even reach the middle of it, so I go over and pick him up. “Tell us,” I encourage, and move him slowly down the board so he can write his message. When he’s done, I set him down and we all read it, spelled out as big as he could: _THANK YOU!_

Alfred throws his arms around Matthew. “You’re welcome!”

Francis’s smile is, for once, just friendly and nothing more. “You’re welcome. You’re not so bad, garçon tranquille. You say what matters, that’s good. Most people never shut up and _blah blah_ about nothing important.”

That might be a dig at Alfred, but he doesn’t feel it and probably wouldn’t care if he did.

Arthur is the only one of us not smiling, but there’s a warmth in his eyes, even if they don’t meet any of ours. “And you have very good manners.”

Matthew points at the blackboard to recycle his message, and we all have a laugh. Mostly it’s Alfred’s boisterous giggles, since Matthew is silent and Arthur doesn’t understand what’s funny, but we’re all here to share it, and that’s the best thing.

 

* * *

 

“Have you found that Matthew tries to speak when he’s at home?”

Matthew’s foster father is a soft-spoken man, himself. He tells me he works as a mason, making charming kneehigh stone walls to border middle class yards. He’d never make it in a boss position, but that makes him much better support to Matthew than someone like Arthur’s mother. “There have been stretches where he seemed to try,” he replies. “He’d get upset, though, so we . . . this is probably part of the problem, but we told him not to worry about talking. We didn’t want to see him upset like that.”

“I understand,” I assure him. “No parents want to see their child suffer. Does he communicate nonverbally, then?”

“Yes, he’s pretty good at it. A lot of pointing to what he wants. But he doesn’t want very much. He’s a sweet boy, but he keeps to himself. He’s content to sit by himself. He’s thoughtful. Always lost in thought.”

I write that down, because I’ve noticed it in the classroom too. _Quiet, and at times distant._ “Has he been to speech therapy?”

“Ah—well, you know, with the financial climate—”

“I understand,” I say again. “I have some ideas I want to try with him. I’m not a therapist, mind you, but I have worked with mute kids in the past.”

“We’d be very grateful to you, if you can help him more. I’d say you’ve already helped him. Most days, he’s sunnier than he was before school started. Is he making friends?”

The only parent to ask me that. “Yes, he is. The whole class, we all adore him. I would love to have him speak before the year is over. That’s what I want to aim for.”

I didn’t intend to say that—false hope is not a nice present to give someone—but it’s validating, to get it out there. And motivating. Now, the goal is official. Now, I have to do it.

To his credit, the father sounds a bit dubious, but still grateful. “Good luck to you. We’ll be praying.”

“Thanks.”

I can do without the prayer, but I’ll take the luck any day.

 

* * *

 

The last, rainy day of September, the kids are stuck in for lunch break. I get out the Lego, intending to extend their free time for the better part of the afternoon, since it’s a gloomy Friday and if I don’t feel like working, neither do seven-year-olds. Alfred and Matthew get set building themselves a house while Francis looks through the bin of board games I’ve collected over the years. Arthur walks around the soon-to-be mess carefully, and approaches my desk. “Mr. Beilschmidt?”

“What’s up?”

He glances briefly at the ceiling—it almost looks like he’s being a smartass, but he is genuinely making sure it’s only the usual tiles up there—before taking something out of his pocket. He proffers his palm, a shiny penny sitting on it.

I smile. “Saved for a rainy day, huh?”

His brow furrows slightly, and I have to fight from laughing at how serious he looks. My little philosopher, burdened by life’s many puzzling turns of phrase and physical expressions. “Mummy says it’s a filthy habit. She says only poor people pick up money off the ground.”

He’s still holding out the penny, but I don’t want to take it without being told. “Then why did you do it?”

Arthur’s gaze drops from my chin to the coin on his palm. “I like to know where they are. This one was in the school parking lot. There’s one in the parking lot of Daddy’s office, too, but I wasn’t allowed to take that one. It’s better if they’re all in the same place.”

“Well, if you find pennies, I’ll keep them here on my desk. Then you’ll know where they are. Would that be alright?”

He considers this a moment, then nods and reaches to set the penny down beside my maple leaf. He looks at it there, and he nods to it, or himself. “Thank you, Mr. Beilschmidt.”

“You’re welcome.” I watch him, standing there in the uniform of a school that doesn’t want him anymore. “Why pennies, Arthur? I pick up dimes or quarters, but hardly ever pennies.”

“Why not pennies?”

“Well, you can’t really spend pennies. They’re just one cent, everything costs more than that these days.”

Those eyes lift—not to mine, but so, so close. “Lots of ones can make a big number, if you put enough of them together.”

“Arthur!” Alfred calls. “We’re gonna play Monopoly! You gotta come be the banker, you’re the smartest!”

“. . . Okay.”

He joins them on the floor, leaving me to watch them all, Arthur distancing himself on purpose, Matthew and Francis held back by language, and Alfred’s exuberance enveloping all of them, gluing them all together no matter how different they are, and I find himself thinking, _Arthur, you’re absolutely right._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folks have been telling me that they like how each chapter has equal time for each boy, and I'm afraid this one isn't like that. Otherwise this would've been twice the length and I'm not about that life. So, my apologies. Matthew will be in the spotlight next time :)

October begins with the journey to the music room. When I tell the boys we’re not doing any work between recess and lunch, Alfred cheers while Arthur looks concerned. He’s not one for deviation from routine, though he’s better with it than some autistic children I’ve seen. My troops march behind me as I lead the way through the halls; I see them stretching up to peek into classrooms we pass by. Alfred keeps a steady soundtrack: “Where are we going? Are we going outside? We need our coats for that, it’s chilly! Are we going to the cafeteria? It’s not lunchtime yet. Where are we going?” until eventually Francis says, “Why don’t you shut up and wait to find out?” I remind him to stay polite, but I’m grateful for him echoing my own thoughts.

Sometimes I wonder if my room was intentionally placed as far away from everything else as possible. It’s closest to the gym, of all things; it isn’t in either of the wings where the regular classrooms are. My door has had several names over the years. It started off with _Special Ed. Room_ , then _Resource Room_ , then a long stint with no identification besides the number which continues to this day. The language is always changing, but the needs of the children haven’t—still, the people in charge would rather pay attention to the former than the latter.

When we step into the music room, Alfred says, “Ohhhh, this is where we were going,” and Francis’s eyes nearly roll back into his head. Mr. Edelstein is at his desk—I catch myself wondering what a music teacher needs a desk for—but he stands when we enter.

“Hey,” I say. “Is your invitation still open?”

“It is,” he replies, eyeing my kids. All four of them are gazing around at the unfamiliar room: lots of chairs but no desks, a chalkboard with lines and notes rather than numbers and letters, posters all over with quotes from Bach, Mozart, Beethoven. The reading keeps three boys occupied; Alfred is already wandering, over to the sink near the teacher’s desk. “How come this is here?”

“To clean out recorders, largely,” replies Mr. Edelstein.

“What’s a recorder?”

“A woodwind instrument. It’s like a small clarinet, but much simpler.”

“How come they’re dirty?”

“Because they’re played with the mouth. When you blow into them, saliva collects in the mouthpiece.”

Alfred wrinkles his nose, delighted. “They get drool in ’em?”

I have to smile at Mr. Edelstein, in his dress pants and nice button-up, discussing drool with a six-year-old. “Yes.”

“Come over here, Alfred,” I say, rescuing him. “Mr. Edelstein has been kind enough to let us explore his room for a while. What do we say?”

“Thank you,” says Arthur promptly, followed by a singsong “Thaaaaank you!” from Alfred, a lackadaisical “Merci,” from Francis and a silent but still cheerful _Thank You!_ from Matthew.

Mr. Edelstein’s thin lips curl upward when he sees Matthew’s chalkboard. He says, “Come into the instrument room with me, I’ll find you all something to play.”

Connected to the music room is what amounts to a walk-in closet full to the ceiling with instruments. Shiny brass glinting in the light, racks of woodwind rifles, string instruments sleeping in their cases. The boys take it all in with wide eyes, and I wonder if any large collection of things has this candy store effect on children. I’m pretty awed, too, honestly—I’ve never actually been in here before.

Mr. Edelstein wastes no time in handing Alfred a pair of bongos. “Try these,” he says. “Don’t hit them too hard. Experiment with different areas and parts of your hands.”

Alfred scurries out, eager to plop down near the doorway and start drumming away. “Look, Gil!” he cries. “I’m a drummer!”

“You were already a drummer,” I say, making him giggle because we all know about his desk-drumming pastime. _That was a good pick for him,_ I think. _Did he sense it? Or was it just luck?_

Next Mr. Edelstein gives Francis a flute. “Don’t blow too hard—”

“Of _course_ not,” says Francis, oozing sensuality from the choice of wording. “I’ve played a flute and an accordion before,” he adds, in a totally different tone, and out he goes to play what sounds like _Hot Cross Buns._

Mr. Edelstein glances at me, and I can see his skin is crawling, but I give him a reassuring smile. He’s actually doing great, so far.

He looks down at Matthew. Their eyes are both violet, but Mr. Edelstein’s are darker, more refined and less whimsical than little Matthew. “For you . . .” He toys with a wavy strand of hair that doesn’t seem to follow the rest, lost in thought as he scans the shelves. “Hm. How about this?”

He presents Matthew with a xylophone. Not a colorful toy; a polished wooden frame with smooth metal keys and a special rubber-headed stick. Matthew’s face lights up as he drags the stick down the keys, bringing forth a rainbow of notes. He holds up his _Thank You!_ again, then tucks it under his arm so he can carry his heavy load out. I would help him, but at the moment my gaze falls on Arthur.

He’s stimming, both hands flapping against his thighs. Those bright green eyes are round with fear; he can tell he’s losing control of himself, but there’s little he can do about it. I can’t believe I didn’t think about this, how the disordered noise of the other boys having fun—in a new environment, on top of that—would be overwhelming for Arthur. I don’t have time to feel guilty, because just then Mr. Edelstein steps past Arthur and touches his shoulder lightly as he says, “Excuse me.” Just a polite little touch, apologizing for moving past so close in the small space. _No, don’t—_ is on my lips. Too late.

Arthur wails, tearing away from Mr. Edelstein and crashing into the shelf behind him. The recorder rack isn’t built in; it wobbles and drops to the floor with more horrible noise, plastic body parts skidding everywhere. Arthur’s breakdown only takes seconds to become a self-feeding machine: the more noise, the wilder his movements, the more things get knocked from shelves, the worse he gets. Mr. Edelstein is frozen, watching with mixed horror and morbid curiosity. None of this is ideal, but it rarely is. I need to act, regardless.

“Get out,” I say, in my firmest teacher voice. “Keep the others quiet.”

The best thing about emergencies is the way it transforms everyone into obedient followers as soon as a voice of authority makes itself heard. Mr. Edelstein hurries out. I close the door behind him and grab Arthur. He’s worked up higher than he’s ever been in my room; his wail lifts into a bloodcurdling scream and he lashes out, kicking a pair of trumpets off a high shelf. Locking my arms around him, I lower us to the floor. I have no hope of lying on him when he’s jerking like he’s being electrocuted, so I struggle to trap him in the next best thing. Arms pinned by my arms, legs pinned by my legs. His back bucks against my front, but he’s tiring himself out, even if his wail has yet to stop. I can’t hear any noise outside; now the problem is just Arthur’s mind, overwound, the cogs catching and grinding. I start looking around for anything I can use to help him—something to blindfold him, maybe—and my eyes fall on something I haven’t seen in years. A rainstick.

I risk freeing one arm to reach for it, and before Arthur can fight, I slowly tip the stick. The little things, rice or sand or something, trail their way down inside the stick, giving us the gentle _shhhhh_ hiss of misty rain. Arthur falls silent, transfixed. I slowly tip the stick the other way. The sound shivers through his body, soothing, and he goes limp against me. I don’t know how long we sit there in the wreckage of the instrument room, listening to rain fall. I release his legs after a while, but I keep my arm loosely around him. I don’t know if he likes it or not; it’s mostly for my benefit, to be honest, because I’ve snuggled all of the boys—even Francis will accept a hug if he’s done really well with something, though I’ve learned not to let him on my lap during storytime because cuddling is not what he’s after—but I’ve only been able to touch Arthur during meltdowns. I’ve always been a physical person; in this job, you are whether you want to be or not. The way I’m holding Arthur right now isn’t really a hug, but it’s close enough.

Our peace is interrupted by a bell. It’s lunchtime. I can’t believe Arthur and I have been in here this long, but when I shift to look at his face, I see his eyes are closed. He trusted me enough to fall asleep? More likely, he was just completely exhausted, but I hold a little hope for the alternative.

“Time to go, Arthur,” I say softly. “It’s time to have lunch.”

Arthur wakes gradually, and stiffens as he does; the time for touching has ended. I help both of us to our feet and ask, “Are you okay?”

He nods, rubbing his eyes. “My head hurts.”

If it was another kid, I’d rub his back, but I don’t want to press my luck. “I’m sorry to hear that. Would you like to stay in the classroom for lunch?”

He nods again, but he’s looking at the mess on the floor. “What happened?”

I study him, but there’s no need. I have yet to see him lie, even to the point where he won’t play pretend with the other children. Not because of morality; just because it makes no sense to him. Alfred has learned not to tell him _You be the dragon and I’ll be the knight, you can chase me around!_ because he knows Arthur will just blink in utter bewilderment. _Why?_

“Just a little accident,” I tell him. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s head back to the classroom, okay?”

Only Mr. Edelstein is waiting in the music room, standing beside Matthew’s abandoned xylophone. Before I can ask, he says, “I sent them to the cafeteria. I didn’t know how long you would take.”

I know it’s because of the mess, but I don’t appreciate the tone. Arthur might think this is his fault; kids have many superpowers, but by far the worst is the ability to rationalize themselves as the fault for life’s tragedies.

“Thank you,” I say. “I’m sorry about what happened. I’ll come in after dismissal and sort everything.”

He raises an eyebrow, glancing at Arthur. “By yourself?”

“You can keep me company,” I say, more through my teeth than I should around a kid. I leave before things can get openly belligerent. Arthur follows after me, hands over his ears as we carve a path through the noisy stream of lunchbox-toting kids. Back in my classroom, Arthur gets his lunch out but doesn’t eat it; instead he rests his arms on the desk and looks at me as if expecting me to scold him. When I don’t, he rests his head on the makeshift pillow and returns to something like sleep. I leave the potato chips in my bag, lest the crunching disturb him. The least I can do, at this point.

 _Sure,_ says the voice in my head that hounded me through university, _you think of that, but not of a bunch of loud instruments. And you’re the one who’s supposed to be helping these poor kids?_

I’ll make it up to them. Somehow.

 

* * *

 

I’m half surprised to find Mr. Edelstein in the music room when all the kids are gone. He’s packing up his things at his desk; I give him a nod and go into the instrument room. _Wow. Okay._ I don’t remember this tangle of trumpets and recorders being quite so big, but it’s no issue. _Ha._ I’ve gotten into plenty of trouble thinking things were _no issue_ over the years. _You know at least half of those kids will wind up dropping out, right? You know what a bad lifestyle choice you’re making, right? You know men have been fired for that, right?_

_It’s no issue._

I’m snapping a recorder back together—the seventh one, so far—when I hear behind me, “I would’ve made the boy clean up the mess.”

I pause, but I don’t turn. “It wasn’t his fault. It was mine.”

“Why was it your fault?”

“Because I should have known the noise would be too much for him.” Recorder number eight. “He breaks down when he gets overstimulated. That’s all it was. Just too much in his head at one time.”

“It looked like a temper tantrum to me. I thought it was because I’d left him for last.”

I turn now, looking to see if he’s serious. He is, as far as I can tell, genuine enough that I wonder if that’s what people see when Arthur loses control. Anger? Wanting attention? Is that what his parents see? Worse, is that what people in public might see when he’s not a boy anymore, but a man? Violent men don’t get timeouts. The thought of some police officer trying to detain him . . . I shake my head, picking up a pair of maracas. I can’t worry about the possible future. I have to focus on now, so I can help him and prevent those worst case scenarios from happening in the first place.

“It wasn’t a tantrum,” I tell him, with a good amount of patience. “It was just something he had to do. It was harder on him than it was on this room, trust me.”

Mr. Edelstein observes me, thoughtful now. “Why do you like that job so much? Working with those kids? Troubled kids? I can tell you care about it all very much, but I don’t understand why.”

I’ve been asked this a hundred times, and I never know how to put the answer into words. I know the first because—because I love it—but I don’t know the second. Why do I love it? What makes it so much better than those normal classrooms?

Just that, in essence.

“Because they’re misfits,” I reply, returning the trumpets to their rightful place. “They don’t fit in, and neither did I.”

I use it in past tense, but in truth the only difference to my school life now to when I was the student is the fact that I don’t get in trouble when I talk. And even then, I think ruefully, remembering the little chat in the principal’s office.

Mr. Edelstein’s gaze softens. “Are you friends with the kids?”

That’s the difference between me and most teachers in this school. It’s never _the_ kids; always _my_ kids. Even when they only stay with me one year—too often the case, with foster systems and low-income families seeking employment—I still think of them as mine. If they’ve been changed even a little bit for the better from the time they’ve spent in my room . . . well, then I’ve done my job.

“Of course,” I say. “I try to be. Don’t you?”

“Not really,” he says, with an unbothered shrug. “I’ve always believed they respect you more if there’s a certain distance between you and them.”

“That’s what I was taught. But in my experience, they learn better if they aren’t afraid to ask questions. I don’t want them intimidated into silence. I’d rather they make loud progress then quietly regress.”

“Well.” He adjusts his glasses. “I suppose that applies more to your classes than mine.”

I shrug, and I’m surprised to look down and see a clean floor. “I don’t see any shattered bits,” I say, leaning to look under the shelves.

“Good,” says Mr. Edelstein, gaining some humor. “Then you don’t owe me any money.”

“Actually.” I pick up the rainstick. A few drops whisper inside. “How much for this?”

Mr. Edelstein’s brow furrows. “You want to keep it?”

“For this year, at least. Arthur liked it. It helped him calm down.”

Mr. Edelstein gives me a suspicious, sidelong look. “If I said one thousand dollars, you would pay it, wouldn’t you?”

“Well, not all at once. Do you charge interest?”

He shakes his head, amazed. “You can have it. I don’t have much use for it. Only the primary class has any interest in it, and that’s fleeting at best.”

I smile. “Thanks, Mr. Edelstein.”

He almost laughs. “Call me Roderich.” His violet gaze flicks up and down me, then he shakes his head. “These kids don’t deserve you.”

“You’re right,” I say, already on my way out so I can get home and mark work and prepare for tomorrow. “They deserve better.”

 

* * *

 

Unfortunately for Arthur, the other kids are not as forgiving as Roderich. I thought the cold shoulders would end the next day, but morning has even Alfred—who makes a point to greet everyone every day, including the canary—turning pointedly away. My only hope is that Arthur doesn’t notice—it would hardly be the first social cue he’s missed—but as the week goes on I see there’s little hope of that. Alfred and Francis completely ignore Arthur in discussion times, and when he tries to help them with their work, they snap at him. “I know how to do it, I don’t need _you_.” So he goes back to his lonely corner pod, and I end up marking worksheets that are only half-done because, in fact, they do need help. When I bring it up to them, they’re brutally honest: “We don’t want help from him. He ruined our music time.”

 _That_ needs to stop ASAP, so at lunchtime, I ask Francis, Alfred, and Matthew to stay behind. “And _no_ complaints,” I say firmly when Francis and Alfred both leap out of their seats. I wait until Arthur has left the room—off to eat as far away from others as he can, no doubt—then I write _FORGIVENESS_ on the board and turn to the class. “Does anyone know what that means?”

None of them even attempt it, at first; they’re too used to a hand going up in the back corner. But that’s not happening now, so they squint, mouthing the syllables, lips moving like they’re sucking on hard candies.

I tap a knuckle on the board. “Does anyone know what this _says_?”

“Forguy-venus,” says Alfred.

“Good try,” I say. “Forgiveness. Do we know that word?”

“Ohhhhh.” Alfred nods. So does Matthew.

Francis just narrows his eyes.

“What’s forgiveness?” I ask. “What do you do if you forgive somebody?”

“If they say sorry you say that’s okay,” says Alfred. “That’s what Mommy says. Or you can say I expect your apology, for fancy.”

 _Accept._ I don’t bother. “Exactly right. Even though what happened wasn’t good and you didn’t like it, you still say it’s okay, and you don’t get mad at the person anymore. When you forgive something, you don’t have to worry about it anymore. Like this.” I walk over to Alfred and tickle him until he squeals, which never takes long, then stop. “I’m sorry for tickling you. Do you forgive me?”

Alfred has to catch his breath. “That’s okay! I except!”

“Thank you, Alfred.” I ruffle his hair, then go back to the front of the room. “Do we understand forgiveness now?”

Nods from Alfred and Matthew. Just a tiny, single one from Francis.

“Good. I want you all to forgive Arthur for what happened in the music room.”

Alfred’s not smiling now. Francis is openly scowling. Only Matthew looks up to the idea. _If only the world had his patience._

“It wasn’t his fault, what happened,” I say. “You all know he gets overwhelmed and upset sometimes. That’s what happened. He can’t control it, so he doesn’t need to apologize. But I will. I’m sorry you missed your chance to play the instruments, and I promise you’ll get another chance before the year is over.”

Alfred points at me. “Cross your heart!”

I do, theatrically. “Hope to die.”

Alfred climbs to stand on his chair. “Pinkie swear!”

I go over and hook our pinkies together. “Pinkie sworn.” Then I lean closer, holding his hand menacingly. “What did I tell you about climbing on chairs and desks, mountain goat?”

Alfred gives me a winning smile. “I’m sorry! Please forgive me!”

I pick him up to look him in the eye. “You’re lucky you’re cute.” He’s giggling as I swing him around to set him down. “Get out of here, go get something to eat. You, too, Matthew. Francis?”

He stops in the doorway, looks over his shoulder at me. I kneel and beckon. He tips back his head to heave a sigh, then joins me.

“I know you’re upset about it,” I tell him gently. “And I know you wanted to show us how well you can play the flute. I bet you’re really good at it. You’ll make a wonderful artist someday. You’re one of the most creative students I’ve ever taught.”

Francis’s eyes narrowed, defensive, at first, but as I go on they widen and regain their sparkle. For him to have so much confidence without any praise to base it off—he’s fronting, more than I thought, originally. Inside, he’s exactly the quiet, shy, uncertain boy he loathes—the kind of boy I want him to befriend and help in Arthur.

“Arthur really likes you, you know,” I say. “You must be able to tell. He talks to you much easier than he does everyone else.”

Grudgingly, Francis nods.

“Give him another chance,” I coax. “What do you have to lose?”

He can’t think of anything, because he sighs again.

I smile. “You like him, too, don’t you?”

“ _No_ ,” Francis meets my gaze and throws up his hands. “He’s a know-it-all and his hair is terrible and all he wears is that stupid uniform.”

“Mmhm.”

We’re walking toward the door. “And he won’t touch anyone and he won’t swear at school and he doesn’t even _look_ at me most of the time.”

“Nope.” I glance down at him. “That’s really annoying, huh?”

Francis stops in the doorway again. “Well. It’s not _really_ bad. Just a little.” His gaze drifts. “And he has his nice eyes. They’re a nice green.”

“Yes, they are.”

We stand with that for a moment. Then Francis puffs himself up again. “I’ll forgive him. But only because I have to.”

“Of course,” I say, but he’s already gone; he doesn’t hear me, and he doesn’t see my smile.

 

* * *

 

Things go back to normal for the rest of October. And then Halloween comes.

The school celebrates the day with bats hung from the foyer ceiling; spiders crawl on shelves in the library. But the kids prefer the trick-or-treating: anyone who wears a costume gets to go around to each classroom and collect candy. Usually I don’t get involved with it. I don’t give candy because I don’t want the constant interruptions to what can be a very sensitive class of kids, nor do I want to make some children feel bad that they can’t participate; I’ve had plenty of kids simply too handicapped to dress up, walk all over a school, eat sticky candy. Just not possible, most years.

But this year is different, and Alfred is very vocal about his wish to go when I tell them about it the day before. “I have the best Superman costume!” Here is another reason my class doesn’t do these things. Francis’s uncle isn’t going to waste money on something worn once a year. Michelle is simply in all-black, with a kitty-ear headband and improvised facepaint for nose and whiskers; Matthew would need to come up with something like that, probably for financial reasons as well. I don’t need to ask to know Arthur has no idea about anything to do with Halloween, nor do his parents care about something so middle class. No costume there, either.

“Well . . .” I look around at the class. “Do we want to go trick-or-treating?”

Alfred throws both hands up in the air. Matthew holds his up, far more calm. Francis shrugs and puts his up to. Arthur looks round at them all, then half-raises his hand, uncertain. Peer pressure isn’t a good development, but I’ll welcome it for now, if it gets him out of his shell.

“Alright, then,” I say. “How about we go as ghosts?”

“But I’m Superman!” cries Alfred, loud enough that Matthew winces and Francis mutters something unflattering in French.

“And you can be Superman tomorrow night,” I say. “But I think it’d be cool if you all went as ghosts. Then it could be a secret, who everyone was. Spooky, right?”

Alfred purses his lips, then sits back in his seat. “That would be cool. Can I bring my Superman costume to show everybody?”

“Of course. We’ll have a good old-fashioned show and tell just for Superman.”

“Yay!”

Which is how I ended up staying up until midnight cutting sheets, which isn’t difficult, but if you accidentally cut yourself and get blood all over not one but two of them, and you have to deal with your gushing hand and then go back to the store for more white sheets, and then to _another_ store when the first store was out, and then go back home and cut sheets again with one damned hand bandaged . . .

“I hope you appreciate these, Superman,” I say the next morning, dropping a sheet on top of his head.

“I can’t see!” He twists the sheet around until he finds the eye-holes, which thankfully are such that he can actually see out of them. “Do I look like a ghost? Boo!” He flaps the sheet at Matthew, walking through the door. “Boo!”

Matthew grins, and I smile, offering him his sheet. “Here you go, little ghost.”

Francis puts his on without a word—I have no idea if Halloween is entertained in France, and if it is whether he ever got to partake—and last is Arthur. I cut it with as little extra fabric as possible, worried it would bother him. But as soon as it’s on, a new energy comes over him. He is not stiff or timid. He prances around with Alfred and Matthew, green eyes gleeful. Brave, when he’s hidden? No different from the rest of us. Anonymity gives us all the courage of no consequences.

None of the other teachers escort their kids, so I let my ghosts haunt on their own, though I tell them to stay together. I pass out candy to every monster, princess, unicorn, police officer that comes along. Many kids don’t come; I have plenty of leftover candy by the time my ghosts return. I wonder if the absence is because they didn’t know where my room is, or because they didn’t want to catch any crazy.

_Now, now, Gilbert. No cynical thoughts on a holiday._

The kids empty out the baskets they decorated yesterday; their desks become mosaics of rainbow wrappers. Alfred’s already hustling Francis to trade for more Tootsie Rolls, and Matthew is amiably sucking on a tiny lollipop, but Arthur doesn’t do anything with his candy beyond sorting it by shape. Alfred notices this and asks, “Aren’tcha gonna eat your candy?”

“I’m not allowed to have sweets,” says Arthur.

“Me neither! But that’s home, school is different! Right, Gil?”

“Only a little different,” I say. “Alfred, you can have _one_ piece of candy now. Another at lunch, and another later, if you can behave yourself. The rest you can bring home to your mom, let her decide when you can have it. The rest of you can have three pieces now.”

Alfred doesn’t even bother fighting me about fair and equal now. He just thumps down in his chair and falls into deep concentration, deciding which piece he should eat now.

Arthur still doesn’t touch the candy. “Sweets are bad for your teeth.”

“One mini candy bar won’t do anything to your teeth,” I tell him. “I promise you.”

He looks down at the candy, in even deeper deliberation than Alfred. After ten minutes or so, we get to work, candy back in the baskets. I sit with Alfred, and Francis doesn’t struggle at first, so Arthur remains at his own pod. As I explain proper capitalization to Alfred, I hear crackling and smile to myself; Arthur is finally trying candy, after all. Then I become enveloped in my conversation with Alfred, and when I next hear crackling, it’s when I stand up. I look over. Arthur’s basket is full of empty wrappers; his pale cheeks have chocolate smeared on both sides.

“Arthur,” I say, too taken aback to sound scolding. “Did you eat _all_ of it?”

His mouth is still full, he shakes his head. Then he looks in the basket and digs through all the empty wrappers. The utter astonishment and _guilt_ on his face means he’s either the best actor I’ve ever met, or this was another lapse of self-control.

“It’s okay,” I say, before he really freaks out. “I’m not angry. Just, come here, get yourself cleaned up. And nobody sneak candy while I’m in the bathroom. Too much isn’t good for you.”

Once I’ve wiped his cheeks and fingers clean, he ducks his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“I know you didn’t.” I throw out the paper towel. “We just have to work on these things. It all takes time.”

He watches me without really looking at me. “I like sweets.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it. I’m glad you learned that today. Now why don’t go out there and help Francis learn to, two, and too?”

He lasts exactly eighteen minutes before he throws up all over himself and Francis.

I’ve seen countless kids throw up over the years, and it usually happens one of two ways. One: the poor kid feels awful for hours and then finally gets it up and out, usually into a receptacle. Or, two: it comes out of nowhere, and it’s usually the bystanders who are the poor ones. Arthur’s case—and Francis’s—is the latter. Francis leaps up, shrieking in disgusted French. Then, and I see it cross over his face, he realizes the opportunity he’s been presented.

“We have to take our clothes off!” he cries, stripping himself with lightning speed. But when he goes to do the same to Arthur, instead of the violence and breakdown I expect, Arthur bursts into tears and runs into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

“Calm down,” I say quickly. “Everyone relax. It’s okay. Alfred, stay in your seat, please. Francis, if you’re not dressed by the time I count to three—”

“My clothes are soiled!” Like we’re in a detergent commercial.

“Your underwear are perfectly clean. One.”

“But—”

“Two!”

“ _Fine_.”

Once they’re all settled at their desks again, I say, “I’m going to step out to get the janitor. Everyone please stay at your desks and go back to your work, as best you can.”

Then I realize I have no one to supervise. Normally, I’d put Arthur in charge, but I’m just going to give him space for a few minutes. I can’t leave the kids without someone vaguely responsible . . .

“Gil?” says Francis.

“What?” I ask, a little snappy even though my stress isn’t his fault.

“Is the janitor nice?” he asks innocently. “He’s going to see me in my underwear.”

Shit. Think, think. Are there clothes in the lost and found? How can I get there . . . Wait. It doesn’t matter. “No he’s not,” I reply. “Everyone put your sheets back on.”

Francis makes a more disgusted noise than he did when he was puked on, but he does as I tell him. Alfred’s eyes are wide in the holes. “Gil! What about Arthur?”

“He’s probably embarrassed,” I say quietly. “We’ll leave him alone awhile.” I go over to knock on the bathroom door. “Arthur? We’re going to find the janitor. We’ll be right back, okay?”

No response, just muffled sniffling.

The trek to find the janitor—with three ghosts floating behind me, one barefoot—is mercifully short. We aren’t gone more than five minutes. The mess is cleaned up, and Francis is given too-big clothes from the lost and found for the rest of the day. Work resumes, peace returns. But the bathroom door stays shut.

After fifteen minutes, I knock. “Are you alright, Arthur?”

Silence.

“I’m gonna come in, okay?” I push the door open enough to peek in.

Completely empty. No Arthur.

Parents often talk about the sheer terror of _My child is missing._

Teachers get that, too.

I close the door and spin around. “I’ll be right back.” I don’t give a reason, just run out, past the gym, to the music room. Roderich is sipping tea at his desk when I tear in. “I need you to watch my kids. Please. It’s an emergency.”

He rises immediately, eyes round. “What’s the emergency?”

I’m not out of breath, but I still can’t breathe. “One of them isn’t there.”

 

* * *

 

Where would he hide?

I don’t think he’s left the building. I can’t risk asking the office if they saw him walk by; if they think a child is off school property, they’ll call the police and potentially give me more than a slap on the wrist. And this is Arthur—his mother already thinks I can’t do my job. I can’t let her take him away. Not now.

_If I was an eight-year-old, where would I hide?_

But that’s not the whole question I have to ask.

_If I was an autistic, embarrassed, frightened eight-year-old, where would I hide?_

Somewhere dark, quiet, secluded. Somewhere low, where I can reach. Somewhere adults won’t check.

The gym is empty, so the lights are off. I check the changing rooms—which are useless, since the kids never use them—then try the equipment room, but it’s locked. I turn around. The other end is the stage. In the curtain, maybe? My gaze falls to small black spots in the shadow, only weak yellow light from the hallway to see by. I squint, distracted. What _are_ these black spots under the stage?

They are holes to put your hands into so you can shift aside a thin piece of wood that hides the crawl space beneath the stage, where spare chairs are kept. And the piece of wood is slightly off from where it should be.

I hurry over, not daring to breathe, I shift the wood aside slowly, peer inside. It’s difficult to see, but beyond the skeletal legs of sideways chairs—a little body, curled up in a ball, still sniffling.

The relief is so strong I drop to my knees; not a long drop, but still. “Hey.”

No response.

“Can you come out?” I ask, keeping my voice gentle.

Nothing.

“Can I come in?”

It’s hard to see, but Arthur nods.

The question was one of permission and logistics; there is only so much free space, and plenty of me to go around. I can’t even crawl or my shoulders will hit the top, so it’s a back-breaking worm-slither that gets me in, and when I reach Arthur there’s still a foot and a half of me outside. “Good enough, huh?” I ask, panting as I lie on my side, which already hurts. “This is quite the place you found. Good piece of real estate. Good, solid floor, that’s for sure.”

Slowly, Arthur unfurls from his ball. Not all the way. Just enough to look at me through the shadow. The smell from his uniform is really not great down here—especially combined with the musty smell the crawl space already had—but there’s not much to do about that.

“Do you feel overwhelmed?” I ask. “Embarrassed?”

His face doesn’t change, but he nods, robotic.

“It’s okay to feel those things. Totally okay. One hundred percent.” Oh, my hip. And knees. And ribs. “Nobody’s upset that you got sick. Francis was glad he got to take his clothes off. I’m half glad you got that candy out of you. That was too much in one go, buddy.”

Arthur’s voice is so soft I almost talk over it. “I keep making messes.”

“We all make mistakes,” I say. “We shouldn’t think less of ourselves for that. And you especially shouldn’t, in these cases. Neither were your fault.”

“Mummy says I’ll be put into an asylum if I don’t get better.”

 _That woman._ If I can walk after this, I’ll strangle her.

“You don’t need to get better, Arthur,” I say, firm but quiet. “You’re not sick. You’re just different, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”

In the same perfectly matter-of-fact tone as before, he says, “Mummy says I shouldn’t have been born.”

For a moment, I can’t speak.

Kids with fetal alcohol syndrome, kids born addicted to drugs before they even take their first breath, have told me that their parents love them. Parents who can’t provide for themselves, let alone another human being, but the point is the child feels loved— _knows_ , for a fact, that he or she is loved. And for this bright, beautiful boy to be acutely aware of the fact that his mother thinks he shouldn’t have been born . . .

“You,” I say slowly, trying my damnedest to keep my voice even, “are not a mistake. I know it’s hard for you sometimes, but you always try. I think that’s brave. I wish I was as brave as you. You’re one of my favorite students. My class is honored to have you. We—I—couldn’t get by without you, Arthur.”

He doesn’t say anything. We lie there, just breathing, my pain and anger feeding each other while I again and again shove them from my mind. Then, after what feels like hours, Arthur finally sits up and reaches out. To do what? To take hold of my hand, but he settles for three fingers.

Arthur is touching me. Of his own volition. He isn’t looking me in the eye, but he is holding my hand. It is connection, that he chose to make.

I have to blink back tears for a few seconds.

“Gil,” Arthur says softly. Not Mr. Beilschmidt, for the first time.

“Yes?” I couldn’t care less about the floor now.

“I don’t like sweets.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess Americans call it Veterans Day, not Remembrance Day? Ah well, it's the same idea no matter what you call it and remembrance is a lovely word so that's what I went with :]

We make steady progress—Francis and Alfred becoming better, more confident readers with each week, with the help of me and Arthur—until the next interruption, Remembrance Day. I often wish the first half of the year wasn’t so frontloaded with holidays, but I can’t complain about this one, especially not with my father’s service back in the day. The service takes place in the gym, and it’s the longest assembly the school has had this year. The students sit according to their classes—young ones at the front, older at the back—and my kids don’t really have a set place to sit. The fifth graders get to sit on benches at the very back of the gym, and there’s extra room, so I let my kids sit there and lean against the wall beside them. Alfred is thrilled, whispering to Matthew and Francis: _“We get to sit with the big kids!”_ Before I can remind him to be quiet, Arthur hushes him. “We have to be respectful.” His tone has all of them, even some of the nearby fifth graders, sitting up straight and looking straight ahead as the principal goes up to the mic. I smile to myself, impressed. I never need to worry about propriety being upheld when little Kirkland is around.

As much as he wants to pay attention, Alfred just can’t do it. I didn’t expect him to be able to last through the whole hour. He makes it twenty minutes before he starts to squirm; Arthur’s scolding looks lose their potency after the third time. Veterans are giving solemn speeches up front. Everyone is paying as much attention as you can reasonably expect from a large group of elementary schoolers, but Alfred is looking around the room, wiggling his feet, stretching his arms over his head. He’ll start tapping or humming soon. _Time for a break._

I lean over Arthur and Francis to tap Alfred on the shoulder. All three of them look up at me, but I beckon only Alfred. He follows me with his head down; I wait until we’re out in the bright informality of the hallway to tell him, “You’re not in trouble.”

He perks up immediately. “Really? I thought I was for sure. I thought you’d call my Mommy and then I wouldn’t be able to watch TV tonight and _Transformers_ is on right when I get home—”

“Let’s use inside voices, okay?” I steer him down the hall, away from the open doors of the gym. “Thirsty?”

Alfred looks at the fountain in amazement. “There’s a three-second rule in gym class so everybody in the line gets a drink, but there’s no line this time!” He peers up at me through those glasses. “Does that mean there’s no rule?”

Oh, what the hell. “No rule. You can sip as long as you want.”

The look on his face. You’d think I’d just given him a puppy. He pounces on the fountain and slurps with gusto. While he does, I backtrack a few paces to peek into the gym. Arthur, Francis, and Matthew are where I left them, standing respectfully with their gazes on the floor for the moment of silence. _Proving that kids in my class aren’t delinquents,_ I think, proud.

“Gil!” Alfred cries. I turn to be presented with a big gap-toothed grin. “Look! No spill!”

He’s come back to the classroom before with water all down the front of his shirt, sometimes even in his hair, sneakers squeaking across the floor like he just fell in a lake. _I spilled. It was an accident!_ But now he’s perfectly dry. I smile, proud of Alfred, too.

 

* * *

 

Now that Francis and Alfred have gotten a better grasp of letters and numbers, I can leave them to their own devices—with Arthur’s assistance—while I work with Matthew. In truth, I might have put it off a bit longer than I needed to. Talking again after two years of silence is going to be an upsetting, even painful journey to take Matthew on, and I hate hurting someone when it’s not entirely necessary. _But it is,_ I remind myself. _Life will be so much easier for him if he can speak. And if he keeps things bottled up, he might end up releasing them in dangerous ways._ Besides, I told his foster father that my goal is to have Matthew speaking by the end of the school year. I don’t know how quick he’ll find his voice, so I’d better start as soon as possible.

The desks feel too serious and far apart, so I get Matthew to sit with me on discussion cushions we’ve moved to one of the corners. It’s nice and quiet over here, with only the soft rustles of the canary in his cage to distract us. I have a book, a picture book about dogs with only a short sentence on each page, something to teach kids to read. I point to the first word in the sentence. _THIS,_ for _THIS IS A DOG._ “Can you say that?”

Matthew reads the word, reads the whole sentence without issue, in his mind. Then he shakes his head, looking up at me apologetically.

I tilt my head a little, keeping my tone gentle. “Do you _want_ to say it?”

Matthew’s eyes widen, and he nods, despair furrowing that pale, innocent brow. He thinks I’m angry with him, thinks I’m about to punish him for not being able to speak. I put my arm around his shoulders. “I’m not mad,” I promise him. “I just really want you to talk, sooner or later. I know that’s scary, and I know it’ll be hard, but I want you to really try, okay? I think your life will be a lot happier if you can talk. And you miss talking, don’t you? Didn’t you tell me that?”

Matthew’s tearing up, but he nods again and leans into my side. I let him have a few moments, then point to the sentence again. “I want you to try to say this. Please.”

While he looks down at the page like a martyr looking down the barrel of a gun, I watch him. I watch his eyes trail across the words, over and over again. I watch his chest tighten, his throat working, his cheeks reddening with the effort. I can feel him trembling against me, and it reminds me of Arthur: a tiny body struggling to contain the terrible feelings inside. But this is different than Arthur’s troubles. This, Matthew initiated himself. This is happening because of me.

It disturbs me enough that I touch his chin so he’ll look up at me, away from the page that’s causing him such grief. “Does it hurt?”

His eyes are bright with unfallen tears, but he shakes his head and returns his gaze to the sentence. _THIS IS A DOG._ He’s trying, he’s trying so hard. “Breathe, Matthew,” I tell him, rubbing his back. “It’s okay. Take as long as you need.” But this isn’t true; eventually recess will come, then lunch, then dismissal, and what then? Am I really going to return Matthew to this hell every day until he speaks or collapses? Put that way, it’s not hard at all to understand why his foster family hasn’t tried to get words out of him. _But he can talk. His voice deserves to be heard._ I tap the first word on the page. “What is this word here?”

This proves too much. Matthew bursts into tears with his mouth still open, no sound coming out beyond choked gasps and sobs. I close the cursed book, shove it away and gather Matthew into my arms. I want to apologize, but I can’t— _Never apologize for making a child do something good for them._ I have to believe this is good for him, even though I can feel my resolve going to tatters with each tear that soaks into my shirt. “It’s okay,” I say softly, rocking him. “You tried really hard, I’m very proud of you.”

He keeps his face buried in my chest, weeping. He’s whimpering, and as much as my heart aches to hear it, I get a sick relief from it, too. It’s sound—proof, again, that he _can_ produce sound. In that way, it’s progress. But it’s still not as easily heard as the voice of doubt in my head, asking: _Progress, but is it in the right direction?_

 

* * *

 

After that, I give Matthew a break. I only intended it to last a few days, but the next thing I know, Thanksgiving is upon us. I decide to go all out with the boys. We all draw the classic hand turkeys. (“See, Arthur, it looks like a bird!” “. . . It looks like a hand with a beak.”) I read them a kids’ book about the story of the pilgrims and the Indians, though in the book everyone is an animal so the turkey part seems like cannibalism. Then we have our own little feast, a picnic of peanut butter sandwiches eaten on a blanket on the floor since it’s freezing raining outside. They say the best conversations are had over food, and most days the boys eat lunch in the cafeteria, so today I get the pleasure of sitting with them and listening to them discuss their plans for the long weekend.

“ _I’m_ gonna make a feast for me and m’oncle,” says Francis, holding his sandwich in one hand and twirling his ribboned ponytail with the other. “I can cook even better than he can.”

“No way,” Alfred says, with his current mouthful stuffed into one chipmunk cheek. Somehow he’s managed to get peanut butter on his hands, chin, both cheeks, and nose. “Kids can’t cook. My mommy even says so.”

“Well, I don’t care what your mommy says,” Francis says, nose in the air. “I can cook lots of things.”

“How can you reach the stove?” Arthur asks. He’s the only one actually using the paper plates I provided; he’s also the only one who required his sandwich to be cut into equal fourths with the crust removed, so he’s working with more moving pieces than the others. “You’re too short.”

“I am _not_.”

“Yes you are.”

“I am not!”

“You are!”

A thing of beauty: I don’t even have to do anything. Matthew calmly moves his juice box out of the way so Francis won’t knock it over as he moves to his knees and Alfred says, “One time I got to help my gramma make cookies and she gave me an especial stool so I could reach the counter and I got to have some cookie dough ’cause I was a good baker.”

Francis and Arthur have deflated by the time they’re done listening to this. Arthur looks at Francis. “Do you use a stool, too?”

Francis sits back down, daintily crossing his legs. “I use a chair.”

I want to warn him to be careful with that, but they’ve already moved on before I can think of a fun, not-Mother Hen way to bring it up.

Out of nowhere, Alfred asks, “Have you ever wet the bed?”

Francis and Matthew exchange a glance—the glance of two prisoners of war agreeing to die with their secrets—then both shake their heads. Arthur just looks confused. “I don’t know. How can you tell? You’re asleep.”

I’m tempted to point out that even if you have a housekeeper who washes your bedding every day, you would still know one way or another that something has happened.

“You can tell,” Francis says, with a wisdom someone in his supposed position shouldn’t have. “If your _nose_ works.” Then he looks at Alfred. “Why? Did _you_ wet the bed?”

Alfred’s eyes widen and he shakes his head vehemently.

Francis smirks. “Yeah, right.”

“I didn’t!”

“Only a bedwetter asks about wetting the bed.”

“I’m not a bedwetter!”

“Bet you are!”

“I AM NOT!”

They’re moving; things can escalate to fever pitch in the blink of an eye. But before I can even decide who to grab, everything freezes. It takes me a moment to see why. Matthew has his hands on Alfred’s arm; not rough, but the opposite, petting his wrist and beguiling him to calm down. And Arthur is grasping Francis’s sleeve, or he was, just long enough to distract Francis from the _fight_ mindset. Everybody settles back into their places, Francis snapping at Arthur for stretching the material of his shirt, Alfred making puppy dog eyes at me. “Sorry I yelled, Gil.”

I can only smile at them all. I don’t need to tell you what I’m thankful for this year, right?

 

* * *

 

That last day before the long weekend, Roderich finds me after dismissal, while I’m folding up the blanket and stuffing it into my overflowing bag. He knocks on my open door, leaning in and looking very fashionable in his grey topcoat with his leather satchel over his shoulder. Of course, a music teacher doesn’t have a lot to carry from school to home and back again. And really, I don’t _need_ to have a bag full of picnic blankets, extra paper plates, odd-shaped pebbles found in the playground over the years, a woolly mitten I really need to take to the lost and found, a pack of tissues buried so deep I’d never be able to find them on the off chance someone has a nosebleed, a half-empty roll of gold star stickers from when I used a star system for a particularly disruptive girl . . . but, well, it’s a security blanket, I guess. If I walked out of the house without all this familiar weight in my bag, I’d be paranoid all day that I’d forgotten something. It’s just part of the balance, now.

“Need help?” Roderich asks, bemused.

I pivot to the other side of the bag so he’s not addressing my ass and illustrate the issue by yanking on the zipper, which refuses to close over the bulging blanket. “Yeah, if you could come sit on this, that would help.”

Roderich’s brow furrows. “Um—I think that only works on suitcases . . .”

“Does it?” I give one last futile tug. “Well, damn. Guess I’ll just carry it as-is, then.” I hug the bloated bag to my chest, turn off the light, and step into the hallway with him. “Did you need something?”

“Ah, well, no.” Roderich starts walking, so I match pace with him. “I just thought . . . well, I wondered if you had any plans for Thanksgiving. But I’m sure you do.”

I glance at him, hiding how flustered he is by adjusting his glasses and looking at anything but me. I do have plans, sort of: a long-standing arrangement to meet my brother at our cousin Mick’s place and dine on whatever their girlfriends put together. It’s usually a good time, but it’s hard to go without being reminded I’m the only one in attendance without a significant other. “I’m never one hundred percent on anything until the last minute, if that answers your question.”

Roderich arches an eyebrow. “Why does that not surprise me.” He opens the front door of the school for me, since I’ve got this awkward cargo. “It’s just that—well, my wife is away. She had to go on a business trip. So I thought, better to dine together than alone?”

I have to admit, there’s a good amount of appeal to having a sort of bachelor’s dinner, like Ludwig and I used to before he met Felicia. I doubt any of them will mind too much if I cancel; we’ll all get together for New Years anyway, if not for Christmas. “Sure. I’d love to.”

Roderich blinks, lagging a little as we cross the staff parking lot. “Really?”

I toss a smile at him over the top of my car. “Really.”

He reaches into his satchel and offers me a slip of neatly folded paper. “Here. My address. Come at—well, anytime, I suppose, but the food will be warm at six. Tomorrow,” he adds quickly, like I might break into his home any day at six o’clock.

I laugh, accepting the paper. It’s written out in perfect cursive, of course. “You had this prepared?”

He looks vaguely affronted. “Of course. In case you said yes.”

I nod, without putting too much effort into stifling my smirk. “Of course. See you at six, then. Tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

I expected his house to be a big place, to match the hoity-toity elegance of the music teacher, so I’m surprised to pull into the gravel driveway of a humbly small house. It’s a nice place, by all means, but nothing like the Kirkland mansion I’ve driven by a few times on my way to the grocery store. (Is it creepy to drive the long way to a store to see where your students live? That’s not really a question you can just ask somebody for feedback, is it?) I step out of the car with a small cage in one hand and a brown-paper parcel in the other. Walking to the door across the driveway—gilded with amber leaves—is a delight; I breathe my lungs full of autumn before I ring the doorbell.

It takes a few moments, then the door opens. Despite being in the comfort of his own home, on a holiday no less, he is in slacks and a button-up. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, but that’s as far as his casualness goes.

Mine, on the other hand, far exceeds his. Jeans— _old_ jeans—and a college sweater that still has paint on it from the time I made the mistake of giving kids leftover acrylic rather than making our own with flour and food coloring. We both look down at this, then I say, “I didn’t think it would be smart casual—”

“It’s not,” Roderich replies swiftly. “I always dress like this.” He steps out of my way, but pauses. “What do you have there . . . ?”

I hold up the brown paper; I can feel the warmth of it, fresh from the oven. “Beer bread.”

Roderich opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. “I meant in the other hand.”

“Oh.” I lift the cage a little. “This is a canary. Not for eating. I didn’t want him to be alone for Thanksgiving.”

In the cage, the canary looks up at us from his little perch. I whistle at him, and he treats us to an impromptu song. The first year I got him, I asked my class to come up with a name. And the next year, the class insisted on renaming him. And again, and again. He’s had more names than feathers, at this point, so I just call him _the canary_ , which I think is fine because he probably calls me _that big thing who gives me food_.

When the cheerful chirps have ended, Roderich is smiling, fully in favor of the canary. “Alright. Come in. Does that cage hang up? There’s a hook here for plant baskets, I think, but it’s gone underutilized for quite some time.”

As I follow him into the living room and hang up the cage where he directs me to, I glance around at the walls. Floral wallpaper, but I can’t complain much; I have floral wallpaper in my place, too. (It’s a _One Of These Days_ project.) There is one couch and two recliners, and you better believe that couch has a sheet of plastic covering it—that much, I _knew_ would be in here. Something I didn’t expect is the lack of pictures. My walls are mostly decorated with art from students, but I have pictures of me and Ludwig, our parents, an extended collection of Best Catch photos from summerly fishing trips with me, Ludwig, and Mikkel. But there aren’t any photographs here; I wouldn’t even know he was married without that ring on his finger. But, when he’s pouring my drink, I see there’s nothing on his finger but pale, soft skin.

The way he eats puts me on best behavior. Elbows off the table, cutting everything into easily chewed bites, using a napkin to clean the edges of my mouth rather than just lick the crumbs away. Eating at Mick’s place is always noisy, everybody talking over each other and clanging dishes on the overflowing table. But Roderich only speaks to answer my questions. And even that rule breaks when I bring up the ring.

He takes a long, long sip of wine, then looks at his bare hand pensively.

“I don’t mean to pry,” I tell him, even though I do.

He still doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look at me, doesn’t even fiddle with his fork.

The silence gets so uncomfortable I say, “Maybe you took it off to cook?”

“Maybe I did.” His eyes, so much darker than they seemed at school, flick up to me. “I haven’t been honest with you, Gilbert.”

I glance down at my plate. “That sounds like something the guy who poisoned the gravy would say.”

A spark comes into his eyes, but that solemn energy doesn’t stop weighing him down. “My wife isn’t actually on a business trip.”

I raise an eyebrow. _If he says she’s in the basement, I’m leaving the canary to fend for himself._

“We’re separated.” He sighs. “She’s a prof at the university. Our house is much closer than this one. Two hours away. She’s living there, without me.” He gives a little shrug. “There were probably closer jobs for me to take, but I wanted to get away. So now I rent this place and we . . . well, we did see each other on weekends and breaks, but last time we got into a fight. Fights have become our pastime.” He spreads his delicate hands, leveling his weary, lonely gaze on me. “And now I’m alone.”

I meet his gaze for a long moment, keeping my face clear of judgement, and then raise my glass to him. “Good thing you got me.”

Relief sparkles in those violet eyes. “Good thing, indeed.”

I can tell you how we got from there to making out on his couch, but it really doesn’t matter. I can tell you how he started it, how he was half-way through his third glass of wine and turned to me and kissed me. But that doesn’t matter, either. The only thing that matters: I force myself to pull back and stop it.

It’s not easy to do; he might be tipsy, but he knows how to kiss. I’ve been with girls before, plenty in college, but it’s never the same as with a man. I’ve only done this a few times, and that was years ago. I know what Roderich wants, but I pull back. “You’re married, Roderich.”

He’s still mostly on my lap, his leg between mine. He looks at me, unfocused. God, he’s beautiful, swollen lips slurring his words. “Adultery isn’t illegal.”

I shake my head, touching my thumb to his chin, hating that I have to be the serious, logical one. “This doesn’t have to be illegal to get us in trouble.”

The terrible truth sinks in; I see the desire leave his eyes, traded in for disappointment. He lifts off of me and flops down at my side, resting his head against my shoulder. In this position, I can’t put my arm around him without disturbing him, so I don’t. I just turn my head so my cheek rests against his hair, silky soft.

“I don’t want you to think I don’t want you,” I say, my voice made raspy by the kisses and the wine and the sorrow. “I do. But . . .” I press a kiss to his temple. “Right now isn’t a good time.”

Roderich’s response comes as an aching, broken whisper: “When would be a good time?”

I look across the living room, at the canary rocking on his swing, to and fro, going nowhere. “I wish I knew.”

 

* * *

 

I don’t avoid Roderich the first week back to school, but I don’t seek him out, either. _Does he think I’m avoiding him? I don’t see him most days, unless he waits up for me or we pass in the halls. Maybe I should stop by the music room._ But as soon as I start into that line of thought, it devolves into: _But what if he doesn’t want to see me, and that’s why I haven’t seen him? What if he hates me now? I did turn him down after I ate his food. Is that rude?_ I don’t know what to do about it, so I stop thinking about it and throw myself into something more productive instead. That something, in this case, is Matthew.

After consulting research on how to get through to mute children—probably not how my colleagues spent their long weekend, but to each their own—I abandon the book method. The next time I get time alone with Matthew, I bring out the doll box. It’s sat untouched on one of the shelves since the first day of school, when all the boys inspected its contents and decided they were too manly to play with anything that could be described as a doll. (“But action figures are different!” Alfred insisted, several times.) I’m getting them back out now in the hope that they will help Matthew talk, because sometimes it’s easier to speak through someone else than as yourself.

“Have you ever used a hand puppet?” I ask, sitting down on the cushions with Matthew. The puppets are just cheap floppy things, but they’ll work. I slip my hand into a dragon with shiny plastic scales, which have been picked off in several places by past students. I bounce my hand so the dragon’s wings flap, and Matthew giggles as the mighty beast swoops around his head. He reaches for a dog puppet with a fraying felt tongue, but then he stops. I watch the smile leave his lips, the light leave his eyes. He moves the puppets and instead picks up a doll. The dolls are realistic ones that I got years ago, when I first started teaching; they’re sturdy and plastic, thankfully, so the most damage done to them is chipped paint and a bald spot on the girl doll from a tiny vandal three years ago.

The boy doll actually looks sort of like Matthew: wispy blond hair, pale skin, light blue doe eyes, a little pink bow of a mouth. The biggest difference is that the boy is smiling, perpetually happy, and even when Matthew smiles he still has that sadness in his eyes. But right now, it’s just sadness.

I almost don’t want to distract Matthew from the intense focus he’s placed on this boy doll, but I need to break the silence. “There are different outfits in the box, if you’d like to dress him up.”

Matthew digs through the clothing options at the bottom of the box. A pair of purple shorts covered in yellow polka dots enthuses him, so he takes off the doll’s jeans—and freezes, staring at the doll’s genitals.

I consider realistic toys to be worth the immature hilarity children often get out of them. It helps both extremes: kids who know nothing about reproduction can learn through the dolls, and kids who have been exposed to too much can express it through an object set apart from themselves. Thankfully, I have only dealt with that once over seven years of teaching. I can still see, plain as day, the little girl who came up to me, a doll in her hand, dress pulled up to hide the smiling plastic face. _This is where it hurts._ Now, with dread rising in me, I make the puppet ask, “Have you ever been touched there?”

I want to look away.

I don’t look away.

Matthew doesn’t look at me, but he nods, and the doll nods along with him, mirrored.

_Breathe._

Gently, I ask, “Do you know the person who did it?”

Matthew and the doll nod again.

“Did they tell you not to tell anybody?”

A third nod, Matthew’s lip trembling.

“I promise, I won’t let anything bad happen if you tell me.” I want to wrap my arms around him, but I also don’t want to be just another person who touches him without asking and I don’t want to make this conversation last any longer than it has to.

Matthew ducks his head, taking deep breaths. I try to imagine the force of the terror that would ensnare the throat of an innocent little boy. _Don’t tell._ Remaining silent about that one thing consumed him to the point that speaking any word at all became impossible. And now he sits here with me, unqualified to help him through this, barely able to think past my hatred of whoever would dare to do something like that to someone like Matthew.

“You can write it down,” I say—urge, really, even though I know I shouldn’t. _Gentle. Support. That’s what he deserves._ But all I can think about is someone looming over him, taking advantage . . . _Stop._

_What if that’s the last thing Matthew said?_

I can’t take it. “Please tell me, Matthew. I want to help you. Please.”

Matthew shakes his head, eyelashes heavy with tears, breaths coming faster and faster like he’s working up courage to dive off a cliff. Then he lunges forward, arms tight around my neck, and I think he’s going to go into a sobbing fit against me, but no. Matthew’s breath warms my ear and on that breath, a barely audible word: _“Nate.”_

At first, I don’t realize what it means. The emotional roller coaster doesn’t end; I’m so excited that Matthew has spoken, it takes me a few seconds to find my focus. Nate. Nate isn’t the name of his current foster father, thank God. I keep my voice quiet, wary of startling him. “Who is Nate?”

Matthew’s whole body tenses against mine, to the point where he trembles, and I can feel the heat radiating off his little body as he struggles to push out the words. “M-m-my brother.”

And with that he collapses, completely limp. I cradle him in my lap, stroking his hair, letting him get his breath back before I ask, “Your foster brother?”

A weak nod as the flush fades from his cheeks.

His current foster brother is only a toddler, and Matthew’s file said he hasn’t spoken for two years. I go out on the most obvious limb, armed with Occam’s Razor. “From your last foster family?”

Matthew nods again, eyelids drooping, exhausted by his efforts.

Now I’m flooded with relief, on top of the joy and anger. It’ll likely be impossible to find the boy who did this to him, since foster kids are so hard to keep track of. Who knows, by now he could be adopted, name changed, and moved to another country. And besides, even if they did find the boy, there’s no way of proving it happened, after all this time. The chances of admission of guilt are slim and none. I’ll have to report it to the police regardless, the legal responsibility no teacher likes to think about. But that can wait until school is over. For now, I’m here to help my kids.

I hold Matthew, smoothing down his pale curls and watching them bounce back into place again and again. “Thank you for telling me. I’m so proud of you for speaking up. That was really, really brave. I’m so glad you could do it. Thank you, Matthew.”

He keeps his eyes mostly closed, only opens them enough to guide his hands in grasping one of mine. He pulls my hand closer, holds it over his chest, and closes his eyes fully with a content sigh.

Through his shirt, I feel the warmth of him, his breaths, his heart thumping away. I think, not for the first time, _That little heart has more courage in it than mine ever will._

 

* * *

 

Ludwig works in another jurisdiction (I’m the one who moved away, if you’re wondering), but I still know the local cops from the last time I had to report an abuse. “I wish you’d bring me good news sometime,” the detective says, and I shrug because I can’t bring myself to make light of shit like this.

The three of us—me, the detective, and the principal—are in the principal’s office. The detective doesn’t even bother to sit down, but she does treat herself to a cup of coffee from the machine. “Do you think the boy could testify in court?”

_No._

“Maybe,” I reply. “But not at this stage.”

The detective and the principal exchange an overly grim, rueful glance—I feel like a kid being patronized by his parents about a lost imaginary friend—and then the detective says, “Alright. Well, I’ll get in touch with the social worker and see what happened to the brother. But without physical evidence it’ll just be he said/she said, and we know how that goes.”

“I know,” I say. “I realize it’s all just a formality. But you understand why I had to report it.”

“Of course,” says the detective, sipping her coffee. “Thank you. Keep up the good work.”

I don’t try to smile, because I know it’ll look forced. “You, too.”

Once she’s gone, the principal turns to me, brow low on his eyes. “See, this is part of the problem. This is why you can’t tell kids it’s okay for a man to have sex with another man. That’s what this was, when you get down to it.” He shakes his head, disgusted. “You tell kids it’s okay, they’ll think abuse is a good thing. They’ll confuse it with love.”

For ten seconds, I forget how to breathe. My mouth is open. I close it, fighting not to clench my jaw. I want to. I want to hold the armrests of this chair so tight my knuckles turn white. I want to pick the chair right up and throw it at the goddamn wall, knock down those framed certificates that state he’s an educated man, that he can be trusted with children, that he has your best interest in mind.

Roderich’s lips on mine, my arms around the boys, the tears in Matthew’s eyes.

“You alright, Gilbert?” The principal is looking over at me, concerned. “You look peaked. You know, this might sound bad, but it is possible to care about something too much. You give one hundred and ten percent to your job, which is more than I can say for a lot of teachers here, but when was the last time you went out, had some drinks, talked to some pretty young ladies? You should do something like that tonight. Take your mind off—”

“I don’t drink on school nights,” I say, standing up stiffly. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I have to go.”

 

* * *

 

The next day, after Matthew’s foster parents have been told what’s going on and Matthew himself has been asked questions by the detective (who called me last night to tell me Matthew didn’t say a word to her), I decide to just treat Matthew normally. That seems the least painful option. When Matthew walks through the door, Alfred greets him happily as always, and Matthew smiles, but there’s still that sadness about it. He looks tired, which is how I feel; I couldn’t sleep at all last night, with all the hateful feelings swirling around in my head and my chest. I’m running on caffeine this morning, even though I don’t usually drink coffee. _Can’t wait for the crash._

Matthew doesn’t respond verbally to any greetings this morning and doesn’t write on his board, either. We all sit on cushions in the discussion circle, but Matthew doesn’t communicate the entire time, just shrugs and looks away when anyone asks him a question. Then, when Alfred asks, “Whatsa matter, Mattie?” he crawls over to curl up on my lap. I put on a smile for the boys. “Matthew’s tired. He doesn’t have to contribute if he doesn’t want to.”

The recess bell interrupts my conversation with Arthur; I hear Alfred whining behind me, but when I turn he’s already dashing off to the door. Francis waits for Arthur to make sure everything is at proper right angles on his desk before they walk out side-by-side, Francis’s gossip never faltering. Only Matthew remains at his desk, watching me.

I put my hands into my pockets. “Don’t feel like going outside today?”

He shakes his head.

“It is pretty chilly out, huh?”

A little nod.

“Well, it’s your free time.” And mine. I sit down at my desk, bending down and grabbing a banana from my bag. Fruit is supposed to give you energy, right? When I sit back up, I almost jump out of my skin. Silent as ever, Matthew has crossed the room to stand beside me. “Hi. You gave me a heart attack, buddy.”

His eyes widen with sympathy, and he reaches out to take the banana from me. He has a heck of a time peeling it, but he manages and offers it to me in what I assume is a gesture of apology.

“Thank you,” I say, breaking off a piece for him. “How are you feeling?”

Without ceremony, and with the bit of banana in his hand, he climbs up onto my lap. I’ve had clingy kids in the past who required talks on personal space, but I can’t imagine doing that with Matthew. He doesn’t get underfoot or inhibit me, for one thing, and for another . . . well, he’s like a living teddy bear. Perfect for snuggling.

Against my shoulder, Matthew mumbles, “Okay.”

I feel my heart beat a little faster at that quiet word (and probably because of the caffeine, too). So Matthew _can_ speak, and I wasn’t just hallucinating yesterday. “How come you haven’t been talking today? I bet the other boys would love to hear you.”

Matthew sits back to look up at me, dubious, and eats his bit of banana. After he swallows he just looks troubled. His voice is raspy, but almost normal volume now. “I don’t remember how.”

“It’s hard to do something after you haven’t done it in a while. But talking is like riding a bike. You can get rusty, but once you start again, it comes back to you and it’s easy. Starting again is the hard part, and we got that over with yesterday, didn’t we?”

“Yes,” Matthew says fervently, eyes wide this time with palpable relief.

“I know, I’m glad it’s over, too.” I take a bite of the banana because it’s just mocking me in my hand. “Now you can practise, and soon you’ll be so used to it you’ll forget you ever stopped.”

Matthew puts his hand over the center of my chest. “I like talking to you, Gil.”

I smile, breaking the banana in half and giving him the other end. “I like talking to you, too. Do you think you’d like talking to your friends, too? I bet Alfred would like it, especially.”

Matthew nods, but mumbles with his mouth full of banana, “I’m scared.”

“Why?”

“’Cause he likes to talk a lot. What if he doesn’t like me talking, too?”

I have to chuckle at that. “I know he talks an awful lot, but trust me, he’ll love to be able to stop and listen to you. So will Francis and Arthur and everyone else you talk to. And you know why? You’re nice, and polite, and clever, Matthew. People will be interested in what you have to say.”

His smile blooms brighter than the canary’s feathers and he hugs me tight. I hug him back—not as tight, obviously—until he pulls back and smiles shyly. “Can I . . . Can I surprise them when they come back in?”

I can’t imagine Arthur getting upset about this. “Go right ahead.”

So, when the boys come back inside and return to their seats, I announce we’re going to do a little spelling quiz. On cue, Alfred and Francis groan while Arthur perks up. Keeping my appearance business as usual, I check my list of words. “Matthew, spell _voice_ , please.”

Matthew stands right up and says, perfectly clear, “V-O-I-C-E. Voice!”

Alfred leaps to his feet. “You said it out loud! You talked!” He runs over and practically throws himself at Matthew, squeezing him until he squeaks. Overjoyed, Alfred turns his megawatt grin on me. “Gil! Mattie can talk!”

“I know,” I tell him, smiling.

Francis has a mix of delight and bewilderment on his face. “When did that happen?”

“Right now!” Matthew declares, and Alfred cheers, so exuberant I half-expect him to start clapping and shouting _hallelujah_.

Formal as ever—and sounding like a smart-ass without meaning to, another common occurrence—Arthur says, “Congratulations on being able to talk, Matthew.”

But Matthew smiles like he’s just been given a gift. “Thank you.”

Beyond excitement, Alfred jumps up and down no less than ten times before he cries, “And do you know what the _best part_ is?”

We all look at him, dying to know.

He beams. “Now we can all sing Christmas carols together!”


	6. Chapter 6

Winter upends a truckload of snow on us as soon as it arrives. The first week of December is sunny and relatively warm, so all the kids are itching to be outside and use the packy snow for creativity and mayhem. Neither Francis nor Arthur have snowsuits, but Alfred and Matthew do, so each day I have to help one or both multiple times with the various parts. While Alfred, Matthew, and Francis enjoy the winter weather with typical childish glee, I quickly learn that winter as a concept seems to have been specifically designed to ruin Arthur’s day. The snowsuits bother him, even if he isn’t wearing one; Velcro, zippers, even the sound of the bulky material rubbing against itself when the kids move. The squelches and squeals of boots on wet floors prove to be the worst—every time he hears it, I have to grab his arms to stop him from hitting himself repeatedly in the head, which scares the class (myself included) so much I now let him go out ahead and come back in behind everyone else. I even add it to his file, even though I hate making him seem more violent. I can’t imagine what it would be like if he lived in England. I mean, when are boots _not_ wet there?

Still, overall winter is welcomed. Generally, my kids tend to keep themselves separate from the mainstream classes and vice versa, but something about the snow changes that. When the rotation lands on me to supervise at break time, I see Arthur helping some fifth graders figure out how to make the archway of their snow fort stand up, Francis sculpting with girls he’s surprisingly shy around considering the way he struts in the classroom, Matthew making snow angels with kids young enough not to question why he’s so quiet, and Alfred—well, Alfred plays with anybody who’ll give him the time of day. If anyone ever wonders who started the snowball fight, it was Alfred. It doesn’t matter which fight you’re referring to; if he was present, you can bet that he fired the first shot. Sometimes my kids form a faction against other teams for these wars, but other times it’s everyone for themselves. I wasn’t sure what to expect with Arthur—he swung at anyone who touched him, so how would he react to a ball of cold snow hitting him? But he’s no more bothered than the other kids, thankfully. And he helps me and the other supervisors police the proceedings— _Not at the head! That’s against the rules!_ —and ignores the mutters of _tattletale_ and _teacher’s pet_ much better than I did as a kid.

Inside the school, things are less violent but no less busy. We decorate: paper snowflakes on the windows, Styrofoam balls scribbled on in festive colors hanging from the ceiling, strings of popcorn along the bookshelves that seem to get mysteriously sparser every time I turn my back on Alfred. (Arthur raises his hand every time, too, but I just smile and wave it off. If Alfred wants to eat cold, unbuttered popcorn, more power to him.) The school puts on a Christmas concert every year—this year it’s the one about the curmudgeonly mailman—so I bring my kids to the gym to help paint the backdrops. No one’s offered them any speaking parts, but none of them ask me if they can be involved that way, so I don’t bring it up. The music teacher is in charge of the concert’s organization, and I see Roderich on the stage, talking with fifth graders about props or something. He must know I’m in here, but he doesn’t look at me. I haven’t spoken to him since Thanksgiving, and the guilt is starting to really gnaw at me. But still—does he _want_ me to talk to him? How can I know?

“Gil!”

I look down. All four boys are looking up at me, but it’s Alfred who spoke. “Sorry, lost in thought. What did you say?”

“Arthur and Mattie aren’t coming to the concert,” Alfred tells me, pouting. “Make them come!”

“I can’t do that. It’s their choice, if they want to come or not.” I’m not shocked to hear it in the slightest. Matthew won’t want to be in front of such a big crowd, and Arthur won’t want to be around all the noise and lights. “I’ll be there to see you and Francis sing, don’t worry. It’ll still be lots of fun.”

Alfred looks unconvinced, so Matthew gives him a reassuring smile. “You can tell me all the stuff that happens.”

Alfred brightens so immediately I have to stifle laughter. “Okay! And we can sing all the songs in class, so it’ll be like our own especial concert!”

We do, indeed, sing all the songs in the concert, multiple times. We also sing every Christmas carol you can think of, including a few German ones they insist I teach them and some French renditions Francis performs with gusto. I shouldn’t have been surprised about Alfred’s love of making music, since he’s constantly humming and drumming. Francis always joins in with whatever song Alfred starts, and quite often Matthew and Arthur join in, too. Arthur turns out to be completely tone-deaf, which starts a three-day fight between himself and Francis until finally I suggest that Francis give Arthur singing lessons if it bothers him that much. I have no idea what those lessons looked like—they happened each day beneath the swirly slide at recess—but by the time Christmas break rolls around, Francis has a healing bruise on his arm and Arthur has greatly improved. Alfred, on the other hand, remains at a singing level I would call _tolerable_ , but he makes up for lack of skill with bottomless buckets of cheer.

The Christmas concert proves an endearing success, by the way. I want to congratulate Roderich on the good job, but I get distracted by Alfred running over to introduce me to his father, and his mother gives me a little box of chocolates _to thank you for helping Alfie so much_ and by the the time I’m clear of them, Roderich is nowhere to be seen.

 

* * *

 

Slowly but surely, Matthew talks. The confession was not an immediate fix, nor did I expect it to be. Some days, Matthew is as talkative as Francis and Arthur (no one could be as talkative as Alfred). Other days, he relies wholly on his chalkboard and ducks his head shyly when we ask why. He still gets flustered sometimes when he tries to read out loud, but I never press him as hard as I did that day; I have no intention of ever, ever making Matthew cry again. His foster parents tell me that he’s still very quiet at home, but he does speak more often, especially when he needs something. _He’s getting better,_ his foster mother said tearfully when I spoke to her at a parent-teacher meeting. _Thank you so, so much._ But it’s Matthew who’s doing all the work; all I’m doing is giving him a safe place to do it. _Just give him time,_ I advise her. _Kids can bounce back from more than people think, if they’re given the chance._ I continue to give him one-on-one time, tucking us into our cushioned corner for some reading practise and cuddles while the other boys work. Sometimes Alfred will lose interest in his individual work and join us, and I never send him away. One cozy afternoon with fat snowflakes drifting past the windows, Alfred and Matthew both drift off to sleep in my arms. I expect Francis to complain that he deserves a nap too, but to my surprise he just shakes his head fondly. “Look at the little kids,” he says. “They’re kind of cute like that, aren’t they?” Arthur observes us critically, analyzing cuteness levels I guess, then nods and goes back to his work. “Yes,” he replies, borrowing an idiom I tried in vain to explain to him last week. “Cute as buttons.”

I know without being told that Matthew’s favorite day is the field trip day. One day without any previous mention of it (except to Arthur, of course, who I warned a week beforehand) I pile all the boys into my car. Arthur protests: _I’m too young to sit in the front seat._ To which I reply: _Do you really want to sit back there?_ He twists around to look at Alfred, Matthew, and Francis squeezed in the backseat, Matthew watching with wide eyes while Francis and Alfred kick each other’s boots. _No thank you._ _Exactly. Stop that, you two. I put Matthew between you so you wouldn’t—Francis, if you don’t roll up that window right now!_

It’s only a fifteen-minute drive (even if it feels like a harrowing hour for me and Matthew) to the place, a sugar maple farm and syrup refinery. It’s family-run, and I’ve taken different groups here in the past. After the first time, we’ve learned it’s best to keep the kids out of the actual refinery part; as interesting as it might be, my kids tend to be hands-on learners, and that’s a dangerous quality when you’re surrounded by dangerous machinery and boiling liquid. So I lead my quartet into the trees, where we meet the owner, who smiles at us and shows us how they use a spile to get the sap out of the tree. He’s got a little station set up for us, and he talks briefly about how they boil the sap into syrup before he pours some of the sugary amber stuff onto a line of Popsicle sticks in the snow. As instructed, the boys roll the sticks until the snow cools the syrup into taffy; then they’re all sucking and tugging taffy between their teeth, grinning with sticky delight.

“Can we look around a little?” I ask, followed by a chorus of yearning squeals.

The owner, a grandfatherly type, nods warmly at them. “Go on. You might see a rabbit or two, if you’re quiet.”

Little chance of that. Alfred leads the charge, with Francis tramping after him exclaiming _Shut up or you’ll scare the rabbit!_ while Matthew and Arthur follow placidly behind, only a few steps ahead of me and the owner. I watch Matthew gaze up at the bare branches reaching for the blue, blue sky over our heads, his little red smile, cheeks pink in the chill air—finally, not a trace of sadness in those violet eyes.

During our exploration, we come across a huge tree holding a wooden fort in its mighty arms. The kids theorize: _Secret spy headquarters! An army fort! It’s hunters, they’re after the rabbit!_ The owner laughs and tells us he built it years ago, for his kids.

Alfred can’t look away from it, entranced by the novelty of a tree with a ladder attached. “Can we climb up? Please? Gil?”

I glance at the owner. “Is it safe?”

“My grandkids still play in it when they visit in the summer. It shouldn’t be dangerous.”

I hesitate a moment—the kids aren’t a liability for the school right now, they’re a liability for me and me alone—but of course, I nod. “Go ahead. But be careful. Take your time.”

Alfred clambers up with Matthew following close behind, both of them practically wriggling with excitement. I’m surprised that Francis hangs back with Arthur; when he catches me looking at him, he puts his nose in the air. “Tree houses are for little kids.”

Arthur regards him sagely. “You’re frightened of heights.”

Francis whirls on him. “I am not! You are!”

“No I’m not! You’re a liar!”

This one’s a particularly spitting fit; they can normally be trusted to simmer themselves down, but Francis immediately reaches down to throw snow at Arthur, so I say, “Not the head!” Francis’s projectile was less than packy, instead coating Arthur in a layer of fluffy white. The authority in my voice has them freezing, then turning toward me, Francis reluctant and Arthur indignant.

It takes some doing, not laughing at Arthur, so serious with all that snow on him. If anything, it makes him look more fey than usual; his eyes are the only green left in this forest. It’s pretty easy to imagine him as a disgruntled spring creature, lost in the wrong season. Do the boys line up with the seasons, I wonder? Arthur for spring, capricious with sun and showers but still bright; Alfred for summer, warm and sunny and loud; Francis for fall, unbelievably colorful and fighting to the last possible second to hold on to dignity; and Matthew for winter, distant and quiet unless you find a cozy nest to hold close the warmth. Not for the first time, I wonder what I’m going to do next year, without these boys. _Every class is good, but these kids are special._ It isn’t something I can worry about until the end of the year, when I decide who will be mainstreamed and who will stay with me—out of who remains, that is. Francis and Matthew could both be adopted, or moved to different foster homes. Then I won’t just be able to greet them in the hallways. Then, in all likeliness, I’ll never see them again.

I push those thoughts far into the back of my mind and focus again on Francis and Arthur. “Are apologies in order here?”

Francis huffs a cloudy sigh. “Sorry.” He reaches up and brushes some of the snow out of Arthur’s hair with delicate fingertips, careful not to touch Arthur too much. “For making you snowy.”

I hold my breath, ready to intervene, but Arthur allows these subtle touches. Then he says, “I’m sorry you’re frightened of heights,” and that gets them going all over again, but this time the snow stays on the ground so I just let them shout themselves out.

A gravelly chuckle has me glancing at the owner, who says, “Reminds me of me and my wife when we first married.”

“Are you still married?”

“Oh, sure. Fifty years next May, and the same fights every day.”

I smile. “Always the way.”

“Sure seems like it.”

Above, Alfred swings the tree fort’s window open and cries, “Gil! There’s little chairs in here! And stuff written on the walls! And a tiny beehive!”

“Don’t touch it,” I warn, even if it’s probably just some wasp’s abandoned art project.

Matthew’s head pops out beneath Alfred’s chin. “Look!” He holds up a maple leaf, mostly brown but still red in a few places, maybe the last maple leaf of the year. My smile is almost too big for my face, but it’s so wonderful to see Matthew not only happy but overjoyed after so many days of the quiet, withdrawn, shy boy I met the first day.

“We’ll have to take it with us,” I say, and Matthew nods, vanishing back into the fort with Alfred.

Matthew carries the leaf with the awed care one would normally reserve for holy objects, and because of that he only uses one hand on the ladder, but I catch him when he slips and the leaf goes unscathed all the way back to the classroom, because Alfred, Matthew, and Francis all asleep on the drive back to the school, thoroughly tuckered out. I catch Arthur cracking some yawns, but he stays awake. Once we’re parked in the school parking lot, I’m in no rush to wake the backseat passengers, so I turn to Arthur and ask quietly, “How come you didn’t have a nap, too? You look sleepy.”

Arthur’s eyes widen. “You can’t fall asleep behind the wheel. That’s dangerous.”

“Well, yeah, but you’re not behind the wheel. I am.”

Arthur looks at me like I’m the confused one. “All of us are behind it. They shouldn’t have fallen asleep but I didn’t wake them because that’s another rule. It’s rude to wake people who are sleeping.” He pauses. “I don’t like it when one rule says one thing and another rule says something different. It’s easier if there’s just one rule. Then no one gets confused.”

That encapsulates Arthur’s trouble with surprises, changes, and the complexities of social life. There never is just one rule. Things are never as structured and consistent as Arthur’s brain would prefer. What I’ve done in the classroom has not prepared him for real life or even a normal classroom; even if that had been one of his mother’s edicts, I wouldn’t have purposefully upset him day after day. Throwing him headlong into a typical life is not going to magically cure him of his troubles. He needs allowances and exceptions, and that’s what I’ve provided for him. He’s the only one I have no doubts about: he will be returning to my class next year, for the sake of everyone in the school.

The thought of the pair of us teaching a whole new group of kids together next year has a sudden rush of fondness warming my heart, and I want to put an arm around him, ruffle his hair, any form of connection. But I don’t, I just say, “Thanks for keeping us safe, buddy.”

Automatically he says, “You’re welcome,” then adds with a more thoughtful tone, “Thank you, Mr. Beilschmidt.”

“For what?”

“For taking us to the tree farm. I liked it. The other children did, too.”

I still haven’t gotten used to how he says _other children_ , like they’re an entirely different species form himself. And, well, I suppose he’s right more often than not. “How do you know they liked it?”

“They were smiling.”

And now I am too. “I didn’t see you smiling much,” I say, to tease him more than anything.

But he takes the words at face-value, as always. “I was smiling,” he insists.

“I couldn’t see it, though.”

“That’s because it was inside.”

I watch him closely now. “Inside? Where?”

He considers, then rests his hand on his chest, over his heart.

 

* * *

 

We decide to do Secret Santa before the Christmas break arrives. Obviously this isn’t something I could do with the more handicapped kids I’ve had over the years; I just ended up giving the kids whatever I could afford those years, teddy bears or crayons or one year dodge balls “borrowed” from the equipment room in the gym (in my defense, they were old foam balls that no one uses anyway because of the new red rubber balls that replaced them, so it’s not like anybody missed them). But this year everyone knows what Secret Santa is—after an in-depth explanation for Arthur and Francis—so we throw names into an old cowboy hat and go around the room to draw. Alfred draws last, then peers into the hat and looks up at me in alarm. “There’s none left for you, Gil!”

“Don’t worry. I already drew.” In fact, I drew as soon as I wrote Matthew’s name down and decided not to put it in the hat. My best reason: after all the emotional turmoil Matthew has been through, I don’t want to risk his gift being lackluster. My real reason: I want to see that simple, pure joy in his eyes again.

So, the week before the break, the boys harbor their secrets with varying success. Alfred whispers to everyone nonstop, despite constant reminders to get back to work, but when I ask what he’s talking about, he says, “It’s secret! I can’t tell you!” and giggles like a madman. Arthur approaches me on three separate occasions to express his misgivings for the whole thing: “What if my Secret Santa person doesn’t like my gift?” so we go over appropriate responses to every possible outcome he can think of to worry about.  Matthew writes me a note—one of those days—asking me if it’s alright that he has no nice wrapping paper, so I tell the whole class there’s no need to be fancy and to remember that it’s the thought that counts.

When the day comes and a row of gifts has assembled in front of my desk, Alfred can barely contain his excitement and Arthur his anxiety. I wrestle with my options: resume routine and make Alfred more restless, or just get Secret Santa over with so Arthur can forget about it. In the end we do both. Arthur starts stimming five minutes into discussion time, so I tell everyone to get their Secret Santa presents, and the distraction brings him down a bit—with the opposite effect on the other three, of course.

I look around at our circle of chairs, each with a gift on our laps. “Who wants to go first?”

“You should go!” Alfred cries, then practically vibrates in his seat as I start to unwrap my little package.

“Cut it!”

I look up in surprise. Arthur has his hands clamped over his ears, watching the gift in my hands like it’s a pinless grenade. I fetch my so-called Adult Scissors, pleased that Arthur is getting better at recognizing what will set him off and protecting himself from losing control. However, I quickly realize there was no danger of paper ripping, because the whole thing is pretty much mummified with clear tape. Once I get through that, I unwrap several layers of reindeer paper. “You really locked this in here, huh?”

Alfred beams, proud. “I’m the best wrapper-upper.”

“Definitely the most thorough.”

At last, I get to the gift, which turns out to be half the size of the wrapping paper labyrinth it was stored in. In fact, it is a tiny Matchbox car with an American flag painted on its roof, complete with fifty tiny stars.

“It’s my best one,” Alfred tells me with great weight.

I smile. “Thank you. I’m honored to have it.” I open my arms and Alfred bounces over for a hug. Then I tell him, “Your turn, Short Stuff.”

Alfred’s present is wrapped in a napkin inside a small Tupperware container. “A cupcake!”

“I baked it all by myself,” Francis says, with a _so there_ look to Arthur that goes unnoticed.

“Thank you!” Alfred’s tongue reaches for the icing, then freezes as he turns puppy dog eyes on me and asks reproachfully, “Do I have to wait ’til lunch?”

I don’t have the cruelty in my soul to make him bring out the pretty pleases and cherries on top. It’s Christmas, for God’s sake. “Nah. Go ahead.”

Alfred lights up like, yes, a Christmas tree and takes a big bite that gets icing on his nose and his chin. Mouth overly full, he mumbles, “Iff ummy!” And with that he throws an arm around Francis’s shoulders, squeezing their sides together. “Of course it is,” Francis says, but he’s smiling, proud of himself. _Good,_ I think. _You should be._

Francis’s present is probably the neatest, presentation-wise; he has a little Christmas-themed gift bag with silky red braided handles and a creamy cat in a Santa hat printed on either side. It’s been taped shut, so after a bit of fruitless picking I slice the Adult Scissors through the seam. Francis reaches into the tiny bag and removes a blue flower. It takes me a moment to see it’s actually a hair clip with a big blue flower attached to it; a deep sparkling blue, at that, a blue so pretty it doesn’t matter the flower is fake. Francis looks over at Matthew, who shakes his head with a tiny smile, and then at Arthur, who looks away as soon as Francis’s gaze finds him.

“You have long hair,” he says, almost accusatory. “And—And I thought it would match your eyes. But it’s too dark. So it might not look good.”

Francis slides the clip into his hair so the flower sits at his temple and asks, “Does it look good?”

Slowly, slowly but surely, Arthur’s gaze drags itself up to Francis’s face, then quickly away, then slowly back again. It lingers, not exactly eye contact, but more directly looking at someone than Arthur’s done all year. He nods, fixated on Francis’s face, and Francis smiles. “Merci.”

I’m trying so hard not to grin my face actually hurts. “Now it’s your turn, Arthur.”

His gift is wrapped up in regular white paper with red and green polka dots drawn on in marker. He painstakingly peels off each piece of tape and the paper falls open to reveal a handful of little brown paper cylinders with numbers on them. Arthur looks confused, so I say, “They’re rollers, for change.” Arthur still looks confused—I should have known a rich boy would never experience the adult feeling of  rolling up allowances and scavenged coins to exchange for bills at the bank—so Matthew says, rather shyly, “For your pennies.”

“Oh,” Arthur says. Then he gives Matthew a little smile. “That’s clever. Thank you.”

Matthew, who had been sitting straight-spined in his chair, now settles back, relieved. I smile over at him. “You’re the last one, kiddo.”

He has a bag, too, ten times the size of Francis’s. I cut the tape sealing it shut, and Matthew moves red tissue paper out of the way (carefully, so as not to disturb Arthur) so he can pull out a polar bear. A _big_ polar bear, big enough that Matthew seems to disappear behind it. He lets it sit on the floor, stroking the fur on top of its head, touching its soft ears, its little black leather nose. Then he grabs up the bear and runs over to me to wrap both of us in a tight hug. Before I know it, Alfred and Francis are hugging me and Matthew too. Alfred cries, “Group hug, Arthur! You gotta be in it, too!”

I watch Arthur hesitate, and I say, “He doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to.”

But then Arthur walks over to us, steps slow and precise like he’s stalking prey, and rather stiffly raises an arm to wrap around Francis’s waist, the other slower about its progress but eventually it ends up across Alfred’s back. With his face turned as far away from us as it can get, he looks more like he’s about to be hit by a train than enjoying a warm holiday embrace, but at least he’s touching us. And when Francis snakes a hand around to rest on Arthur’s hip, he doesn’t jerk away or smack him. He just stays with us, as close as he can bring himself to be.

I don’t know how the hell I’m gonna spend two weeks away from these kids.

 

* * *

 

The last day of school is a half day, so once the boys are gone (licking candy canes I gave them in their little Christmas cards), I go to the music room. I find Roderich in the instrument room, doing the same tidying I did to prepare for the break; the janitors do a good clean of the place while we’re out of their hair, so we do our best to move things out of their way. I knock on the door jamb, and he glances at me but goes right back to his work because the box he’s shifting is about to fall off the shelf. It’s easier to talk when someone isn’t paying attention to you, so I ask, “Can we talk?”

“Yes,” Roderich replies, still not looking at me. “But close the door.”

I obey, and when I turn back Roderich is right in front of me, grabbing my collar and hauling me in for a kiss. My hands rise to those elegant hips before I know what they’re doing, and _we can’t do this here._ Even if we didn’t have this added layer of impossibility thrust upon us—bad choice of words when those lips are on mine, good God—this is school, an elementary school. Teachers can’t be anything close to sexual, for obvious reasons. I have to end this, but oh, do I have to . . . and just when the thought of never pulling away crosses my mind, Roderich does just that, stepping backward with pink cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he says, breathless. “That was . . . I didn’t mean to do that.”

I clear my throat. “It’s okay.” I clear my throat some more. “Listen, I want to apologize for avoiding you since November. You were right, I am just a kid. I don’t know how to be an adult in general, let alone with serious stuff like this.”

Roderich regards me with new sympathy. “Well. I’ve been avoiding you, too. So don’t be too hard on yourself.”

 _Please don’t say on after hard. Actually, please don’t say hard at all._ “I, uh . . . I’m wondering if we can be friends. First.” I put my hands into my pockets because I have no idea what to do with them. “And then maybe something more. Later.”

I can tell he wants to ask when _later_ is—just as much as I want to know when _later_ is, trust me—but he doesn’t. He just nods. “Friendship sounds pleasant.”

I smile. “Good.” I offer him a little box.

Roderich’s eyes widen. “Oh, but I didn’t get you anything—”

“That doesn’t matter. This is nothing special,” I tell him. “I just saw it and thought of you.”

He opens the little red-and-green striped package. Inside, sitting on a layer of fluff, is a small silver broach. It’s a snowman playing a ukulele. Through laughter, Roderich asks, “Where on earth did you find this?”

I laugh with him. “I went to a lot of stores.”

Roderich arches a dark eyebrow at me. “I thought you said you saw it and thought of me.”

“I did see it, once I was done looking for it.”

Roderich shakes his head, and I pick up the broach. “May I?” He nods, so I pin it to his coat. He looks down at it, amused. “Thank you.” I smile. “You’re welcome.”

Then he lifts his head and he’s looking at my lips, and I’m looking at how perfect his dark hair looks against the white of his skin, and I’m wondering how pale can look so horrible on me and so lovely on Roderich, and especially I’m wondering why someone like him would want to kiss someone like me.

Roderich kisses me, just a soft peck to my cheek. “Merry Christmas, friend.”

I return it, brushing my lips over his forehead. “Merry Christmas.”

 

* * *

 

I spend Christmas Eve at Mikkel’s place, joining them for another colossal Christmas dinner with all of us—Mick, Ludwig, Felicia, Lucy, and myself—squeezed around the table. I get the usual playful criticism for not having fun on weekends, and I tease Ludwig and Felicia for not being married yet, but throughout the whole dinner and making fun of sappy holiday romance movies in the living room afterward, I notice Lucy never laughs. In fact, she barely even smiles. Granted, she’s not known to be a bubbly, giggly person like Felicia, but the glum way she pokes at her food and fiddles silently with her engagement ring has me wondering if there’s something I should know about. And sure enough, when I get up to get myself a drink, Mikkel follows after me.

“Hey,” I say, offering him a bottle of beer. “Is everything okay with Luce?”

Mikkel takes the bottle and cracks it open with one of many openers in the house. “Okay is about as good as she is. That’s what she tells me, when I ask. Just says _I’m okay._ ”

I watch him, avoiding my gaze and scuffing his reindeer slippers (Lucy has matching penguin ones). “What happened?”

“Don’t tell anybody.” Mikkel sighs. “She had a miscarriage.”

“Jesus.” I glance toward the living room, then back at him. “When?”

“Late September. First trimester, but. She was devastated.” He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing jaggedly upright. “We both were.”

“God. I’m sorry, Mick.” I reach out to give his shoulder a squeeze, wishing there was something else that would make this better.

Mikkel gives me a tiny, grateful smile, but mostly he just looks tired. “We’ve been having tests done. The doctors think there might be something wrong.”

My eyes widen, and he says, “I asked first-thing, they said it wasn’t anything life-threatening. But there’s a chance she just can’t carry a baby.”

It’s never been a mystery that Mikkel and Lucy want to have a family, and a big family at that. They have this big house, after all, empty rooms just waiting for cribs and toy chests. To be denied that, when there are kids being born on the street all the time . . . “Have you thought about alternatives?”

“We’ve talked a little.” Mikkel’s mouth goes a bit crooked. “But I’m gonna give her time.”

“Of course.” I give his side a nudge, which is the closest thing to a hug I feel like I should give him right now, with how he’s still not looking at me and angling his body away. (Arthur has given me a lot of practise reading body language this year.) “If there’s anything I can do, just ask.”

Mikkel nods. “If you could come by every morning and warm up my car before I go to work, that’d be awesome.”

“I’ll get right on that.” I laugh. “Vikings don’t feel cold.”

Finally, Mikkel gives one of his normal smiles, nice and wide. “Oh, I didn’t know that.”

I clink my bottle against his. “You never stop learning.”

Mikkel laughs, too. “Thanks, Teacher.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have performed 20 years of time travel to include ‘The Giver’ in this fic because I read it in school and I thought little Arthur would enjoy it :)

When we finally get back from the endless break, we have a week before the midterm examinations start. I’ve always found it pointlessly difficult to make high school students go two weeks without classes before exams, let alone elementary schoolers. (And I know those two weeks could be used for studying, but who would ever take time out of celebrating Christmas to study?) So when my kids get back, I cut the parading of presents short so we can get into some review. I probably don’t have to tell you which one of the boys is pleased to go back to routine.

The examinations aren’t nearly as strict and formal as the ones older students go through, but they are scrutinized by people important enough that I want to give the boys the best odds I can. Not that it reflects poorly on me when resource kids don’t perform stunningly on assessments—the plain truth is that my kids just don’t test well—but I don’t want something as trivial as standardized testing to get between them and being mainstreamed.

Alfred is the perfect example of this. We’ve been taking tests verbally almost exclusively since October, because talking is his strong suit and sitting still, writing quietly, waiting patiently when he’s done—all qualify as cruel and unusual punishment. The exam booklet says teachers are allowed to read questions to students if they have trouble understanding them, so I sit with Alfred and read every question to him, multiple times when needed, until we get through it. He’s so antsy by the end I have a little wrestling match with him, to keep him from climbing the walls and to reward him for doing much better than I thought he would. His English isn’t as good as his math, and neither are A-level, but he’s certainly not failing or below average. If his teacher would be willing to give him breaks from the tedium when needed, he would do fine in a normal classroom.

Matthew and Francis are greatly improved from the beginning of the year. Only a few words trip Francis up, and his math skills are actually slightly above average for his grade. Matthew’s math is only a bit better than Alfred’s, but his English is excellent compared to where he started out this year. His spelling isn’t perfect, but it’s wonderful for his age. Checking over their exams, I’m delighted by the progress.

And then there’s Arthur. I know he could do the third grade assessment Francis did in his sleep, so I put together something with the work he’s been doing, including long division and equations with fractions. Even with the less familiar elements, he breezes through it—until I bring out the pictures.

We’ve done this once before, at the beginning of the year when I was still feeling out what symptoms of the autism spectrum Arthur presents. Then, I’d just drawn faces on a piece of paper. Two dots for eyes, a curved line for a smile. _Do you know what this means? Happy. Right._ Then another, with the smile inverted. _Do you know what this means? Sad. Good job._ Then I added two slanted eyebrows over the eyes, turning it into an angry frown. _What about this one?_ Watching the disconnect on Arthur’s face was like watching lights go off in a window. All recognition of humanity in the lines vanished. _I don’t know. What does it look like?_ And, of course, his response: _It looks like a sad face with lines over its eyes._

Now, I’m armed with photos I cut out of magazines. I start off easy, with a woman smiling. “Do you know what the look on her face means?”

“Yes. She’s happy.”

“Good.” I hold up a child crying. “This one?”

“Sad.”

“Yep.” I hold up a girl with wide eyes, open mouth, hands on her cheeks as she looks at a huge wrapped present. It’s the most exaggerated expression I have. “What is she feeling?”

Arthur regards the image blankly. “I don’t know.”

I can’t accept that. “Do you have any guesses?”

He shakes his head, looking down at the tabletop. This, I don’t understand. Any other problem I present to him is met with determination to crack the puzzle, no matter how complicated it may be. But trying to decipher a facial expression, a key component to socialization that has much higher stakes in his life than algebra, provokes no interest at all. Detachment. Boredom.

I hold up a picture of two girls, one watching the other with narrowed eyes and arms crossed over her chest. The girl being watched is wearing much nicer clothes and seems oblivious to the attention. Francis could look at this and describe a grand tale about the girl’s obvious envy and what it could lead her to do out of revenge, but Arthur gets nothing from it. Nothing, again and again, no matter what I show him. It wouldn’t get under my skin so much if he looked like he cared about this, but he doesn’t. And no matter how many times I remind myself it isn’t his fault, I still get upset.

“Why aren’t you trying?” I burst out, dropping my pictures onto the table. They slide between me and Arthur, a haphazard bridge of faces.

The overlapping, erratic pattern clearly bothers Arthur, but I think it’s my tone that upsets him more, or perhaps my words. “I _am_ trying,” he insists, voice rising.

“You won’t even guess,” I say, even though I’ve heard it a million times before.

“Guessing is pointless,” Arthur says. “If I get it right, it’s just luck. It’s like cheating. That’s against the rules.”

I grab a picture of a shouting man. “Faces have rules, too, you know. Angry faces always look like this, see? The way the eyebrows go . . .” But I can tell he doesn’t see, and what’s worse, I’m lying to him. How would he ever know if someone is angry with him if they don’t look like this? If they’re being passive-aggressive, or if he’s talking on the phone? He’s going to be tossed into a world where taking things literally will get him labeled a smartass, and where hiding emotions is often the polite thing to do, even when people know what that emotion is. And, no matter how much he might push people away, he does enjoy and long for connection with others. How many will call him a freak or worse and outcast him?

He’s just looking down at his lap—so he won’t have to look at the mess on the table, I suspect—and I can’t make it go on any longer. I gather the pictures, fold them, and pitch them into the garbage bin. Then I tell him, “You did very well, Arthur. I don’t want you to be upset. I’m proud of you.”

“I’m not upset,” he tells me without looking up. “If I got upset about faces, I’d be upset all the time. They never make sense, not just on paper. I’m used to that now.”

I’m thinking about the loneliness of that when, out of nowhere an ear-splitting bell begins to ring incessantly. It’s the last thing I expect to hear, so it takes me a moment to place it. Right. The fire alarm.

_Oh, no._

The other boys are having quiet time, but I can’t spare any attention for them. Arthur is screaming, _shrieking,_ and hitting his ears so hard I’m scared each next time will have blood on his hands. I need to get him away from the sound, so I can’t just restrain him, but there’s no way in hell I can convince him to walk calmly out like children are supposed to during fire drills.

This can’t be a drill, because I’m supposed to know ahead of time when all drills will happen. There isn’t supposed to be one today. Is this a real emergency?

If I panic, we’re all screwed.

“Follow me,” I tell the boys, then just grab Arthur. He hits and kicks blindly, wild like a cat. I grab hold of one of his arms but my other is busy just keeping him in place, so I take endless smacks to the face and kicks to my legs, but I don’t shift him to a different position because I’d rather he hurt me than himself.

When we finally get out into the snowy field, one of the fifth grade teachers is saying, “I’m sorry, it was just a science experiment gone wrong, there’s no fire, I didn’t think there’d be that much smoke—”

For a second, pure hatred at the carelessness boils up inside me. I see rows and rows of students staring at me, at Arthur still kicking and screaming against me. I don’t want to put him on snow without his coat on, but I don’t know how else to stop this. I sit down and bear hug him, pinning his limbs like I did in the music room. The alarm is still going off, and even though it’s muffled by the distance, I know it’s still just as loud for Arthur.

The principal edges closer. “Is there anything—”

“Turn it off,” I growl, while Arthur wails like he’s being burned alive.

The principal stares at Arthur with the same morbid curiosity of the children. “I’m afraid the fire department had to be called.”

I stare at him. I can’t even think of words beyond, “No.”

“They’re already on their way.”

 _No._ The sirens, the flashing lights, the shouting—it’ll be too much. “I have to take him somewhere. He can’t be here when—”

“Everyone must stay here unless we have to evacuate,” the principal tells me. “We need all students and staff accounted for.”

I can’t look at him any longer. I just hold Arthur with my aching arms while Francis, Alfred, and Matthew watch with wide, concerned eyes. Arthur tires, even though the wailing doesn’t stop, and when those dreaded fire trucks arrive, he falls silent. For one second, I think maybe he’s fine now. Maybe the introduction of a new horrible sound magically reset him. Maybe it’ll all be okay.

I’m wrong.

It breaks him.

He goes completely limp in my arms. I turn him around, terrified, but his eyes aren’t closed. He’s conscious, but oh, Jesus, his eyes—they might as well be the glass eyes of a taxidermy rabbit for all the life they hold. “Arthur,” I say hollowly, but of course he gives no response. Total flat affect.

I’ve never seen him this far gone, and it scares me. I cradle him like a baby, so anyone looking will think he’s just asleep, and try to keep the what ifs out of my mind. He’ll be fine. He’s never gone straight from one hundred to zero before, but it’s okay. A few minutes or hours will have him back to normal.

Roderich comes up to me when we’re finally clear to walk back into the school. “Is he alright?” he asks quietly.

I won’t lie. I shake my head.

Roderich’s eyes widen. “What are you going to do?”

The other boys are hanging on the answer, so I reply, “I’m gonna wait.”

And that’s what I do, for the next two sickening hours. I put Arthur on the nest of cushions in the corner and I go back to work as usual. The other boys get absolutely nothing done, because they look over at Arthur every five seconds. I’m no better. I don’t know what’s best to do for him, that’s the maddening thing. Too much stimulus caused the problem, so what can I do, short of putting him in some dark anti-gravity chamber? There’s no way to have no stimulating factors. Everything is calm now, but he’s still not coming back. What am I supposed to do?

“Gil!” Alfred cries, leaping to his feet. “He’s moving, look!”

We all look over to the corner. Arthur is sitting up, but it’s with movements foreign to his typical stiffness—he moves slowly, dreamily, with that same void expression on his face. His hands rise, flapping in slow motion like butterfly wings, and stop inches from his face. His fingers wave to and fro, and I have to move closer to see that he’s stroking his fingertips through his eyelashes, over and over again. There’s no way he can focus on something that close to his face, and of course he isn’t focused on anything—he is miles and miles away from any of us, lost in the world behind those emotionless eyes.

“Um—” I clear my throat, forcing myself to turn and face the disturbed faces of the other kids. “Let’s get back to work, guys. Arthur will be fine, don’t worry.”

But they do worry, and no work gets done. None of them listen to me when I tell them to leave Arthur alone—but really, I don’t know what I’m talking about. Maybe talking will help him, I don’t know. Alfred chatters at him about everything that comes to mind, Matthew fixes the nest so Arthur is nestled more cozily into the pillows, and Francis does what I’ve been trying to work up the courage to do: he grasps Arthur’s hands and says, “Where are you?”

Arthur stares right through him.

Alfred falls silent. Francis grows agitated. “ _Arthur._ Don’t ignore me! Arthur!” He shakes Arthur’s shoulders. “Wake up! You have to come back!”

All three boys are starting to tremble, so I go over and put my arms around them. “It’s okay. Don’t be scared. Arthur will come back.”

Francis whirls on me, and I’m shocked to see, for the first time, tears shining in his eyes. “When?”

 _I don’t know._ I’ve never heard of an autistic flat affect lasting forever, but I have had unresponsive children in the past who went days without communicating—even if, for them, communicating means smiling and babbling. If this lasts days, how will the class handle it? How will _I_ handle it?

No. This can’t last days. This can’t even last another twenty minutes, because then it’s dismissal, and then his parents will see him. If they lock him in his room when he has meltdowns, what will they do to him when he’s like this?

I can’t bear the thought. I go into overdrive, trying everything I can think of. I hold him, tip the rainstick. I put as much of my weight on him as I dare. I wet his lips with cold water, wave as many different kinds of food I can find under his nose. I whisper to him, begging in English and German: _Please, come back._

But nothing works, and the final bell rings. That was my last hope—maybe the routine sound would draw him back? No luck. Alfred’s mother arrives and Michelle turns up to walk Matthew home; both boys give sorrowful farewells to Arthur, as if they’ll never see him again. ( _If his mother pulls him out of this school, he might not._ I can’t think things like that right now, I just can’t.) Francis’s uncle comes a few minutes late as usual, but Francis doesn’t want to go for once. He’s sitting beside me and Arthur, holding one of Arthur’s hands.

His uncle says something in French from the doorway, and Francis looks up at me, eyes teary again. “Is he going to die?”

“No! No. Of course he isn’t going to die,” I assure him. That one, at least, I know for sure. “He isn’t in pain. He’s just . . . he’s in there, somewhere.”

Francis studies me until he sees I’m not lying, then gently lifts Arthur’s hand and kisses it. He doesn’t say anything, just gets his bag and goes.

Arthur’s nanny comes in barely a minute after Francis’s uncle. “So sorry I’m late,” she says. She’s in her early fifties and American, but the family she serves has such abrasive accents she’s adopted a bit of one herself. “I had pressing errands. All set, Arthur?”

I stand up. “Come on, buddy,” I mumble, trying to get him to his feet. He’s boneless at first, then he catches on to the pose and stays up. His hands are in front of his face again, fingers fluttering. No hiding it. I glance at the nanny, fearing the worst.

But she has genuine sympathy in her eyes. “It’s been years since I saw him like that.”

I latch on to the potential ally. “He’s done it before?”

“He’d spend hours like that, when he was two and three. It’s pretty unnerving to see a toddler sit in one place all afternoon, but that’s what he’d do. We had to put a keylock on the laundry room door, because all he wanted to do was watch the washer go around. And he figured out the child-proof knob in a day, of course.”

I don’t remember what I did when I was two, but I can guarantee sitting in front of a washing machine was not part of it. “How did you get him to snap out of it?”

“We didn’t, really,” the nanny admits. “His parents mostly just ignored it. Usually it would start at lunch and pass by supper. Or he’d go to bed that way and wake up back to normal.” Her brow furrows. “But his last therapist said he’d outgrown this.”

That makes my blood go cold. If his parents are under the impression Arthur is regressing because of me . . . They might not do anything, but I don’t know, and I can’t take that.

“This is going to sound weird,” I tell her, “but I need to go home with you. Just for a little while. Please. I don’t want Arthur to be stuck wherever he is.” Because of the sympathy in her eyes, I risk the truth: “I don’t want his parents to see him like this.”

The nanny regards me, then Arthur. She presses her lips together, exhales through her nose. “Mrs. Kirkland is home at quarter to five,” she says. “You have ’til then. I’m not allowed to welcome unplanned guests into the house.”

“Thank you,” I say, once I’m certain I heard her right. “Thank you.”

She nods, eyes rather grim on Arthur. “I think it’s a shame, what they say about the boy. But you didn’t hear that from me. It’s not my place.” She glances at me. “Still. He’s sweet. In his way.”

I wrap him up in his coat and cradle him. “In his way,” I agree, watching him reach up to the lights above us, fingers spreading then closing as if he’s grasped the brightness. _Hold on to it,_ I think as I shut off the lights. _We’ll need it._

 

* * *

 

Not that I take much of it in, but the Kirkland mansion is definitely the fanciest place I’ve ever been in. Classic paintings and dark wood floors, all surfaces spotless. No toys anywhere, even in Arthur’s room. You’d never know a child lives here. What did he teethe on, diamonds?

I lay Arthur on his bed, which is nicer than mine. I have no plan beyond providing as much comforting stimuli as I can. So I get the nanny to put some soft blankets in the dryer while I inspect Arthur’s bookshelf. No picture books in sight. Plenty of non-fiction, all of it at a sixth-grade reading level, mostly about trains, ships, space. The juxtaposition of these scientific texts next to classic fantasy books actually makes me smile a little. He has a collection of gorgeous copies of Lewis Carroll’s works, and it’s _Alice in Wonderland_ I take off the shelf.

The nanny returns, and I take the blankets from her. I pile them on Arthur, wrapping them around him until he’s just a little face peeking out like a swaddled baby. I sit on the bed beside him, open the book, and start reading in the gentlest voice I can manage.

_“. . . in another moment, down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again.”_

I have to stop and look at him. _How are you going to get out, Arthur?_ Then, just as I lower my gaze to the page, I see movement. I look up, breath held.

Arthur’s eyelids flutter, then open fully, and his eyes finally focus on me, albeit blearily, like he’s just woken up from a long sleep.

“Hey there,” I say softly. I almost drop the book, I’m so relieved. “How are you feeling?”

Arthur squirms to free his hands from the blankets so he can rub his eyes. “Tired.” Then he looks around his room and says, “You’re in my house!”

I smile. “That’s right. I’m here to help you. You were having a little trouble, but I think you’re better now.”

“Thank you,” he says automatically.

I have to laugh. “You’re welcome, buddy.”

“Mr. Beilschmidt?” The nanny is standing in the doorway. She looks a bit relieved, too, to see Arthur back, but mostly she’s all business. “I think you’d better go.”

Arthur starts to sit up, protesting, “But I want to show you my train set.”

In a place this big, he can probably ride on the train set. “That’s okay, I’ll be able to see it another time,” I tell him as I fix the blankets and stand. It’s most likely a lie, when you get down to it, but he doesn’t call me on it. “For now, you just have a nap, okay? Then you won’t feel so tired.”

Arthur hesitates, but he listens to me, lying back down in his cocoon of covers. “Will I see you at school tomorrow?”

“Of course. Everything will go back to normal.”

The safe haven of routine is what has him surrendering to sleep. I smile at him a moment longer, then pull the door shut and escape before any adult Kirklands can find me on enemy ground.

 

* * *

 

Thankfully, the kids forget about that little horror a lot quicker than I do. They have more romantic things on their minds; Valentine’s Day pops up before I can even consider it. As with every holiday, Alfred leads our way into the proceedings with infectious enthusiasm. My annual cynicism about a holiday designed to sell overpriced jewelry doesn’t hit so hard when I’m distracted by a blue-eyed boy exclaiming, “We gotta make boxes for our Valentimes! That’s what we did in preschool!”

“I don’t think we need boxes,” I tell him. “There’s only four of you—”

“But we did it in _preschool_!”

“Inside voices.”

Alfred ducks his chin, looking up at me with pleading, sad-puppy-dog baby blues. “Please, can we, Gil?”

So we make boxes with slots for collecting cards and decorate with heart stickers and construction paper. I have to explain the idea to Arthur. “You give everyone a little card that says _Dear_ their name and _From_ or _Love_ your name. It says _Happy Valentine’s Day_ , too, and usually you write something nice about them.”

Utter confusion. “Why?”

“Because it’s tradition. And it shows people you care about them.” I raise my eyebrows at him. “It’s polite.”

That has him looking down at his desk, very serious as he shoulders the burden of Valentine’s Day.

The day of, I have a sugar cookie with pink frosting and heart sprinkles for each of the boys. They deliver their cards, then settle into eat while they look them over. Alfred and Matthew have store-bought Valentines (I suspect Matthew’s are leftover from Michelle’s) but Francis and Arthur have made their own. Francis’s are very creative, with 3D flowers and hearts he made by layering bits of construction paper. Arthur’s are the complete opposite, just folded pieces of white paper with each boy’s name written in red ink. I notice Francis’s brow furrowing when he reads the card Arthur gave him, but I forget about it when we get into a spelling quiz.

When the other boys go to lunch, though, Francis comes to me. Arthur waits in the doorway, holding both of their lunch bags. Francis sets his card on my desk. “What does this say?”

I read it silently, smile, and read it again aloud: _“Dear Francis. Thank you for becoming my friend. I would like to be friends with you forever if you are interested. Happy Valentine’s Day. Love, Arthur.”_

Francis keeps his expression measured as he takes the card back. “Merci.” He folds it carefully, returns it to his box, and joins Arthur in the doorway. Then he gives Arthur a kiss on the cheek so fast Arthur can’t even react. Even when it processes, all Arthur asks is, “Did you like my Valentine?”

“Yes,” Francis says. “That’s why I did that.”

“Oh.”

“Do you want to hold hands to the cafeteria?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“You can have my cookie, though.”

“Okay.”

If you’re wondering: I don’t celebrate the holiday myself, but I do find a small box of chocolates on my desk and a note in elegant handwriting: _My door is always open. Happy Valentine’s Day, friend._

 

* * *

 

Soon after the fourteenth, I announce that we’ll be starting essays, which produces the expected response: Matthew looks worried, Arthur looks eager, Alfred looks daunted, and Francis looks like he’d rather perish than do one more academic activity.

“It’ll be fun,” I tell them. “You get to write a whole page about something you love, since it’s February.”

Francis groans, and Alfred says, “Gil, I don’t know about this whole essay idea. I think I’m too dumb for that.”

“You are not dumb,” I tell him for the hundredth time. “All of you can easily fill a page with words. Once you start, you won’t believe how easy it is. You don’t have to worry about spelling. In fact, I don’t even have to read the papers, because you’ll read them to the class.”

Now Matthew looks like he might faint, but Alfred and Francis have perked up—if there’s a performance element, those two will find the spotlight. I don’t want Matthew to worry himself sick, so I add, “If you really don’t want to, though, I’ll be happy to read it to the class myself. You won’t lose any marks. Sound good?”

They all stare at me.

“Enthusiasm, guys.”

“Sounds good!” Alfred exclaims, fists in the air.

“That’s what I like to hear,” I say, going over for a double high-five. “Everybody start brainstorming.”

As the others set to work, I sit down at Arthur’s pod, voice low. “I think we both know filling a page is a little basic for you.”

Arthur nods, relief plain on his face.

“You’re going to read a book and write an essay on that, instead. It can be as long as you want. I’ll give you an outline.”

Arthur’s eyes light up. I hate to be a slave to the whims of his mother, but if the challenge of a middle-school level book report makes him that happy, who am I to keep it from him?

Over the next week, I help them with their essays. As I suspected, Alfred and Francis have little issue once they get past the first sentences, but they still require almost constant reassurance about phrasing and word use. _Gil, does this make sense? Are you sure? Is this a good word? Do you know any better ones?_ I indulge them, even when I’m tempted to tell them this doesn’t have to be university fare. The fact that they care enough about their work to take pride in it is nice enough to make my thesaurus service well worth it.

The day we decide to present, Matthew isn’t the only one with cold feet. When I call on Alfred, he chews on his lip and holds out his paper. “Maybe you should read it, Gil.”

I don’t take the paper. “I thought you wanted to read it for us.”

Alfred shakes his head. “Not now.”

“How come you changed your mind?”

Alfred looks around the classroom like it’s full of people, not just his three friends. “The standing up in front.”

I felt the same way as a kid; if you’d told me I’d stand in front of people every day as a job, I’d have laughed at you (and probably sworn, too, if you told me in high school). I glance at the other boys. “How do you feel about it? Thumbs up or down?”

All four boys show me thumbs down.

I know most teachers don’t give exceptions for this sort of thing because presenting is an outcome kids have to meet. But I really don’t feel like forcing them to do this, so I go for a compromise. “How about we do it in a discussion circle? Would that be better?”

The thumbs go up for that one. We put our chairs in a circle, and I tell them, “No worries, no pressure. It’s the same as talking, you’re just reading off a paper, that’s all. Take it away, Alfred.”

And with that, Alfred tells us about _Transformers._ Every single Autobot, or at least it seems like it. On and on. I have a feeling he’s adding in more info than he put on that piece of paper, but at least he’s smiling. When he’s finished, we all applaud, and he grins ear-to-ear and gives us a bow.

“Very good,” I tell him. “I think you qualify as an Autobots expert. Who’s up next? Francis?”

Francis gets up and steps into the center of the circle like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment. Like a little French poet, he delivers an ode to Troyes. He describes old churches, museums, stone streets, canals. I never expected all the trivia about Roman times—who taught him this? Not his criminal parents, surely. His uncle? I can’t imagine him caring, but then again, I shouldn’t judge books by their covers. By the time Francis is finished, both he and Matthew look mournful. We all give a good clap.

“That was excellent,” I tell him. “You made us feel like we were there. I didn’t realize you missed France so much.”

“I don’t miss France,” Francis says, sniffling as he sits back down. “It’s better here. Even if you have to speak English.”

I smile. “Are you ready, Arthur?”

He nods and stands up. Evidently he’s no stranger to recitations, because he holds his paper but doesn’t look at it. The book he read was _The Giver_ , and he gives us a synopsis without any of the expected horror at the emotional parts. I left him questions to answer in my outline, but he leaves out the responses to _How does this make you feel?_ The only personal remark he gives is this: “The character I like the most is Jonas. It would be nice to be like him because then I could get feelings and memories put inside me and people would make sense.”

That’s lost on the younger boys, but Francis looks at me with an awful lot of concern in his eyes. I just give him a smile and we applaud Arthur.

“Exceeded expectations, as always,” I assure him. “I’m glad you liked the book.”

“Mummy wants to keep my report once you mark it,” Arthur says. I can hear the pride, how happy he is to do something his mother likes.

It breaks my heart when kids don’t deserve their parents, but it’s so much worse when parents don’t deserve their kids.

Finally, Matthew’s turn. He stands up shakily, eyes glued to his paper. He’s fighting, I can tell; his cheeks are starting to get red. I can’t stand to watch him cry again, so I let him off the hook: “It’s okay, buddy. You don’t have to read it. How about I read it out loud, would that be good?”

Matthew’s eyes actually get wider, but he sits on his hands—I know by now they’re perpetually cold—and nods to me.

At the top of the page, he’s written what I asked: _One Thing I Love._ And what does he have written underneath? His family, his friends, a TV show, maple leaves, ball hockey?

_Gil._

_I love Gil. He is my techer. He teches me to read and writ. He gives worm hugs and he maks me feel safe. He helpped me to talk and now I do’nt hurt anymor. His hare is white like snow. His eyes are gray and pink. My sister sais he is wired but I do’nt think so. I think Gil is the best techer in the world and I love him vary much._

In his handwriting, with a space between each line, this takes up most of a page. I can’t care about length, anyway. I just stare at the paper and try to keep the tears in my eyes from falling.

“I thought you were gonna read it out loud,” Alfred says.

“Um.” I clear my throat. I know if I attempt to reread it I’ll get choked up. “No, actually, I don’t think I will. This is an awesome essay, Matthew.” I smile at him. “I’m honored. Thank you.” Then I smile at the other boys, too. “You were all awesome. I’m proud of every one of you, and you should be proud of yourselves.”

Then I give Matthew a great big, warm hug.

 

* * *

  


Three days after that, I get a call from Mrs. Kirkland. For small talk? No. To tell me how pleased she is with Arthur’s book report? Of course not. She requests an immediate meeting with no explanation, so I tell her to come in tomorrow, during my prep hour before school starts. She hangs up on me, so I get zero sleep, up all night wondering what could possibly be so upsetting to that woman.

When she comes in, she slams the classroom door behind her, clip-clops across the room, and drops a notebook down on my desk with a solid thunk. “Perhaps,” she says crisply, “you can explain this to me.”

It’s a fancy notebook, one of those genuine leather ones so expensive it seems uneconomical to write inside. But there is writing, pages and pages of Arthur’s remarkably neat penmanship, each numbered and dated in the corner. “I didn’t know Arthur kept a diary.”

“One of his analysts recommended it,” she snaps. “Page forty-six.”

Dread rising, I flip to it and read.

_Reasons marrying Francis would be good:_

  1. _He isn’t a stranger._
  2. _He keeps his hair back._
  3. _We see each other every day._
  4. _He can cook if he stands on a chair._
  5. _I like him._



Mrs. Kirkland glares at me with grey eyes so unlike her son’s. “Just what have you been teaching my child?”

“I knew nothing about this,” I tell her, because it’s the truth. I spread my hands. “Kids pretend to get married to each other all the time. It doesn’t mean anything, it’s just silly. Play-pretend.”

She narrows her eyes. “Arthur does not play pretend.”

I go quiet, because I’ve known that since September. I can’t help but wonder if my diagnosis is accurate. This could be a sign of affectionate friendship . . . or it could be an actual crush, in which case Arthur has even more going against him than anyone thought. Alfred and Matthew are getting to the cooties stage, and Francis obviously knows enough about women’s bodies to know what attraction is, but Arthur has never expressed any curiosity in dating or kissing. It’s hard to tell what any child thinks, but with Arthur it’s impossible.

Still: I have seen a handful of students over the years that I felt suspicious of, and the delicate way Arthur conducts himself reminds me of them.

“I’ve heard you have very liberal views,” Mrs. Kirkland continues. “And you like to push them on your . . . students, such as they are.”

“I don’t push any views on the kids. I educate them and let them make their own decisions.” I pause, debating if I should say my next words: “And I hope their other educators do the same.”

Her frigid eyes flare. “I could have you fired in a second. Brainwashing my innocent son.”

 _Who you lock in his room when he gets upset._ I take a deep breath and force myself to say, “I’m deeply sorry. I promise I haven’t done anything to influence the boys.” Then, though it makes me feel physically sick to say it, I add, “I’m sure this is just a phase. He’ll grow out of it, don’t worry.”

She exhales sharply through her nose—I expect smoke to come out of her nostrils—then picks Arthur’s journal back up. “If he worsens from being in this foolish classroom, I’ll have you in court. A prodigy should not be surrounded by drooling retards.”

“Mrs. Kirkland.” I’m standing up, looking down at her, one of the rare occasions when I don’t care how intimidating I might look. “With all due respect. I have work to do.”

She scoffs, disgusted. “Yes, I imagine changing diapers keeps you very busy. I’ll leave you to it.”

Without another word, she clops out of my room.

I go to the chalkboard and cover it in filthy, hateful words, all of the things I’d like to call that ignorant woman. I write over them when I run out of space, until my fingers are covered in white and the chalk is a tiny nub. Then I erase all of it and beat the dust out of the eraser.

It doesn’t make me feel any better. Only my kids do that.

 

* * *

 

“That’s horrible,” Roderich says, violet eyes bright with sympathy. “Poor Arthur. And poor Francis.”

I glance at him. He fits in with the bistro’s decor much better than I do; I hardly ever eat here because it’s expensive and too fancy for me. “Why poor Francis?”

“Well, if he doesn’t feel the same way as Arthur. I know they’re only children, but . . .” He shrugs, swirling his wine. “Still. It’s hard when someone doesn’t return the feeling.”

I look down at my steak, because we both know that rule applies to us, and I just don’t want to talk about _us_ right now.

“And it’s hard when parents don’t understand,” Roderich adds. “Mine always wanted me to do something more manly. I don’t really know what. Cut down trees, I suppose.”

I have to smile a little at the image of Roderich in lumberjack flannel. “That would be something. Your mother wanted that?”

He gives me a faint, knowing smile. “Well, no. She was the one who made me take piano lessons. She said she didn’t want me to waste my fingers.” His smile fades. “They fought about me, a lot.”

I nod. “I was always afraid to disappoint my father. My brother and I both were. But I think we turned out okay.”

“Does your brother have a wife?”

“Girlfriend,” I correct. “But they’re head-over-heels, so they’ll probably get married. It’s nice, I’m happy for them.”

Roderich studies me curiously. “Have you ever had a girlfriend?”

“Sure. Don’t knock it ’til you try it, right?” I shrug. “It was okay. Not terrible. But I don’t think it’s for me. Sometimes I wish it was, but that’s life, I guess.”

He smiles ruefully now. “I used to think I batted for both teams, but lately . . .” He swirls his fork in something I don’t even know the name of. “My wife came down for Valentine’s Day. We’d stopped fighting for our longest stretch in a while and we had a romantic night planned. But when the time came, I just . . .”

I watch him blush and guess, “Couldn’t finish?”

His cheeks go even darker. “Couldn’t start.”

I wince for him. “Been there. How did she take it?”

“Not very well. We watched a movie, but we were bickering by the end. I slept on the couch.” He sighs wryly. “I have that much heterosexuality to my name.”

I laugh, because you have to laugh about this stuff.

“I told her—” He stops, then starts again: “I told her I thought it might be a good time to make the separation official, but she just finished her coffee and left.”

“Oh. Yikes.” I study him, but he’s not looking at me. “How are you feeling about it?”

“I cried. Some. But not in a bad way,” he adds quickly. “It’s a relief. This has been a long time coming.”

I nod. The brightness of his eyes makes me feel kind of sad for some reason. “I don’t think I could do it. Get married, I mean. It wouldn’t be fair to her.”

“Well, polygamy is illegal.”

I raise an eyebrow and Roderich takes a sip of wine, then says, “You’re already married to your job.”

I smile. “That’s right. Here.” I raise my glass. “To my longest standing relationship, outside of family.”

Roderich clinks our glasses. “And to the end of mine. Cheers.”

He tips his head back to down the rest of the wine, and I sip mine more slowly, echoing it in my head, where it’s safe. _Cheers._

 

* * *

 

At the end of February, the boys finally get their music time. Roderich brings Alfred, Matthew, and Francis to his room while I stay with Arthur and we practise social skills. Arthur’s not very pleased with the arrangement, but the other boys come back giggling and singing and telling me all about what they played and learned. “We did Hot Cross Bums on recorder!” Alfred cries, jumping onto my lap.

“ _Buns_ ,” Roderich and Arthur correct in unison.

I ruffle Alfred’s hair and set him down so I can go to the door. “Thanks for giving them a second chance. They behaved?”

He smiles. “They were just fine. Tiring, but fine.”

“Good. Okay, boys, it’s almost dismissal. Let’s get your snowsuits—” I try to go out and Roderich tries to go in, and we end up colliding in the doorway before he hurries backward. “Sorry,” I say quickly, “my fault—”

“No, it was mine,” he says, blushing and adjusting his glasses. “I’d better go, before I get trampled by the stampede. Have a good night.”

“You, too,” I call after him, trying my best not to be reminded of the last time I touched him, how warm he was, how soft his lips are . . .

“Ooooh.” Francis smirks up at me. “Gil is in loooove.”

“What?” Alfred perks up behind us. “No way, teachers can’t be in love!”

“Yes, we can,” I tell them, “and no, I’m not.”

“Are too,” Francis says stoutly. “You look all lovey.”

I’m worried what I look like if it’s how Francis thinks love appears. “Listen.” I crouch down and draw them all around me. “I need you boys to promise you won’t say things like that about me. It’s not true, so it’s a lie, and I don’t want you to be liars. More importantly, things like that can get me in trouble. So please don’t say them. Promise?”

Four wide-eyed nods.

“Okay, good. Thank you. Let’s get you suited up, okay?”

As usual, Matthew leaves first with Michelle. Alfred gets picked up by his mom. Arthur gets picked up by his nanny. And then it’s just me and Francis.

Normally, he’s just a few minutes late compared to the other guardians. But today ten minutes to go by and there’s no sign of the uncle. “He’ll get here any second, don’t worry.”

Francis shrugs, sitting down at his desk. I sit with him and take out some paper so we can do some doodling. “Is your uncle sick?”

Francis shakes his head, concentrating on his cat drawing.

I work on a flower. “Does he ever drink?”

“Sometimes.”

“Does he drink during the day?”

“Sometimes.”

“Does he drink when he drives?”

“No.” Francis looks at me. “He’s not bad.”

“No, of course he’s not,” I soothe. Fifteen minutes late. “I just wanted to make sure you’re safe, that’s all. Do you feel safe at home?”

“Yeah.” He rubs his fingertip against the paper to make the cat look soft.

“That’s a nice kitty,” I tell him. “We should put it on the wall.”

“ _Chat_ ,” he corrects.

I scan my memory for French. When do adjectives come after nouns, again? Oh, doesn’t matter. “Beau chat,” I say, and Francis smiles. He signs his work—he’s by far the best of the boys at cursive—and we pick out a place to hang it with other drawings from the boys. Then we give the canary fresh water. Still no oncle, after twenty-five minutes.

He’s doing his best to hide it, but I can tell Francis is getting worried now. I wrap his scarf around his neck and smile. “Tell you what, I’ll drive you home. I bet your uncle just fell asleep and forgot what time it was.”

Francis’s brow furrows. “He sleeps a lot . . .”

“There you go, I’m sure that’s all it is.”

I grab my bag and we head out, waving goodbye to the secretaries through the office windows. I’m hoping to God sleep is to blame for all this; I’m not looking forward to the possible states I might find the Frenchman in.

“Oncle!” Francis suddenly cries. He runs across the parking lot to his uncle, who is climbing out of a taxi. They exchange some quick French, then Francis turns to tell me, “The car is fucked!”

“Maybe a more appropriate word,” I suggest, but I can’t keep from laughing. School’s over with, what the hell.

“I’m translating,” Francis says innocently.

His uncle is smoking, but he’s smiling too, and Francis looks proud to get into a taxi, like he’s climbing into a chariot. I nod to his uncle, then wave as they drive away. Francis’s little fingers flap in the window.

Standing there by myself, thinking about the boys and Roderich, I realize the thing we all have in common: We’re okay. At the end of the day, there’s nothing wrong with any of us.

It’s just when other people get involved that things get ugly.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was originally gonna be a gloomy one-shot, and then it was gonna be a six-chaptered angst fest; it’s almost entirely because of the lovely response it received that it became what it is. So, thank y’all for influencing me to make this into something better :)

When spring finally comes, it’s a relief. The kids, and not just mine, are absolutely itching for an end to the cold and ice. After a blizzardy week of being stuck inside at recess and lunch, and all four of them sniffly and glum (even snowball-loving Alfred), it almost feels like a miracle to look out the windows and see more green than white. Energy levels spike and mud goes _everywhere._ There’s a schoolwide Easter egg hunt that Alfred and Arthur prove adept at, with Arthur reasoning out where teachers— _the Easter bunny,_ I remind him quickly—would be most likely to hide eggs and Alfred zooming ahead to find them. The boys long to get outside all day long, so we make many, many excursions out into the field and even venture a little past the forbidden treeline on the pretense of nature education. My tasks—finding an acorn or mossy stone, overturning rocks for worms and insects, counting petals on daisies and buttercups—are sidelined by more important pursuits.

“Tag!” Alfred shrieks, giving Francis a nudge so hard he almost topples. “You’re it!”

“Hey!”

“Tag Mattie, tag Mattie!”

“Noooo!”

I cross my arms. “Guys, this isn’t recess.”

They all freeze, looking over at me.

“. . . Which means I get to play, too.”

“Tag Gil!”

“DOGPILE!”

On the rare occasions I get them to focus outside, I teach them about flowers. I check a book of common flora out of the library and we stroll (run, for Alfred) around to find out how many we can identify. Matthew spots a chipmunk clearing out its nest, so we learn about how chipmunks hibernate. Then Arthur finds a couple paw prints in the mud, so we do some very scientific research to determine it was a rabbit.

Since we haven’t done a science project in a while and it’s the season of growth, I give each boy a quarter of an apple (peeled, for Arthur). Alfred brings it up first: “Gil, you left in the seeds. Mommy always cuts the seeds out.”

“I left them in because I want you all to collect them,” I explain. “We’re gonna see if we can make them grow.”

“Into apples?” Alfred asks.

“Seeds grow into trees,” Arthur corrects.

“Silly,” Francis adds, and purses his lips when Alfred sticks his tongue out at him.

“Gentlemen,” I say mildly, regrouping. “Seeds need water to grow. Where can we get water?”

“The bathroom!” Alfred cries, already on his feet.

Each boy gets a jar, some damp paper towel, and a seed. I show them how to give the seed a little chamber to grow so it will stay hydrated but won’t suffocate, and I give them a piece of tape to label with their names and stick on their jars. We put them on a windowsill and fill out timesheets, noting down all the important things we notice about the seeds. “We’ll check on them every day and see if anything changes.”

But that same day, when the lunch bell goes, Alfred lingers by the window. I look over at him from my desk. “I don’t think they grow quite that fast, buddy.”

He flashes me a smile, almost bashful. “I was just checking. I never grew a seed before.”

I smile back. “You could do it at home, too. Maybe you could ask your parents to start a garden in your backyard.”

“Oh, we already got a garden. Mommy grows lots of flowers in it.”

“I bet it’s nice. Do you ever help her?”

“Sometimes. I’m a real good weeder but sometimes I pull out stuff that isn’t weeds and Mommy has to put it back in the dirt again.”

“Al,” says Matthew insistently from the doorway. Francis and Arthur are lingering there, too; they all wait for each other, now. “It’s _pizza_ _day_!”

Few things can end a conversation faster, when Alfred is concerned.

 

* * *

 

An unexpected downside to spring is the reemergence of inappropriate behavior from Francis. At first, it’s subtle enough that I don’t really notice it. His arguments go on longer with Arthur, or he’s quicker to interrupt Alfred when he chatters too long during discussion time. One afternoon in particular, when I’m working with Matthew, Francis’s voice rises above the soft productive murmur: “—a stupid whore!”

I’m on my feet. Matthew is covering his ears, and his eyes are almost as round as Alfred’s. Arthur looks appalled, but before he can scold the use of foul language I beat him to it. “Francis. We do _not_ say things like that in here. I don’t care if you were calling someone that or not, it’s disrespectful. Understand?”

He gives nothing more than a mutinous glare.

“Understand?” I repeat, raising my eyebrows.

He snatches up his pencil and returns to his work, muttering, “Whatever.”

Beside him, Arthur sits very still, watching the angry progress of Francis’s pencil across the page. I watch, too, expecting him to do what I’ve seen him do countless times: walk away as soon as there’s a lull in a conversation, assuming he isn’t needed anymore. But he doesn’t. He stays beside Francis, silent and watchful.

I try to be watchful, too, after that, but it’s difficult to prevent a fire when you can’t see the spark. The very next day, Francis arrives in a terrible mood. He even scowls at Matthew, who can always draw at least a friendly glance from him. During discussion, I ask carefully, “Would any of us like to talk about something that’s bothering us? Is there anything making you upset?” He stares right at me, with the cold calculation I’d expect from a vengeful adult rather than a grumpy eight-year-old, but he doesn’t offer any reasoning. I surrender and get the class going with a spelling quiz.

I’m looking down at the list when Alfred’s voice rises up in panic: “Gil! He’s getting naked again!”

Sure enough, Francis is stripping with his trademark speed. When he gets my attention, though, his movements slow down and ooze with sensuality. His hips shake, his fingers trace his waist and chest. I don’t know what’s worse, me seeing it or the other children. But I end it, quickly. “Clothes on,” I say firmly, tugging his shirt down over his head. He writhes against me, but thankfully doesn’t make those awful moans he did on the first day. “You know the rules. What’s gotten into you lately?”

He just looks up at me and licks his lips. I retreat, before it gets worse, with the flimsy justification that giving no attention to the performance will end it. And it does. For a few days.

It’s a rainy Thursday when things go to hell. Thursdays are claustrophobic anyway, without a rainstorm keeping us indoors all day long. The dark clouds make the classroom lights feel overly bright, and the thunder has Matthew paranoid about a power outage because he’s afraid of the dark. I can only console him with a hug, because he of all people knows there really are things to be afraid of out there, and quite often they find you when everyone else is asleep. And _that_ lowers my spirits even further.

Still, Alfred does his best to cheer us up. “Seed Time, Seed Time!” he sings, parading around his pod.

I try to smile, but in truth his voice is grating today. “Yes, let’s check on them. Everyone get your sheets out.”

Arthur and Matthew obey with their typical punctuality, but Francis lags even more than usual. His movements are all exaggerated: he hauls himself to his feet, sighs, and shuffles to the windowsill to retrieve his jar. I’m about to go sit beside him for a quiet chat when Alfred squeals: “Look! Gil! Look, mine is a tree!”

I stand beside him and peer down into the jar. Sure enough, the seed has split to reveal a small, pale green shoot has sprouted up. Alfred is so pleased, this time I can smile genuinely. “You’d better mark it down. Good scientists take lots of notes.”

“I’m the best note-taker!” He sets to work, and I stifle laughter when Arthur glances over with an expression just shy of incredulity.

As I circulate, I find that each boy—though they’re not nearly as loud about it as Alfred—has found similar results in their jar . . . except for Francis. His seed is lighter than it was before, and a bit furred. “It must’ve been too wet,” I tell him. “That’s okay. I’ll get you a new one.”

Francis doesn’t look at me. He just gets up, walks over to where Alfred is dutifully taking notes, picks up Alfred’s jar, and smashes it on the floor.

“HEY!” Alfred shouts, shoving his chair back. “Why did you do that?!”

“Francis!” I hurry over. “Apologize, right now.”

He looks at me, looks at Alfred, then stomps on the shattered glass. His shoe isn’t hard enough to really break it, but he makes sure to grind his heel into the apple seed, and when he lifts his foot we all see the squashed, broken shoot on the floor.

With a war cry of absolute fury, Alfred hurls himself at Francis.

Sometimes it feels like the world is paused when chaos takes over. I see Matthew crying, Arthur stimming, and Alfred and Francis hitting and kicking and rolling dangerously close to broken glass. _Isolate the problem._ I pull the two wildcats apart and, when Alfred keeps swinging, I hold his arms to his sides. “Hey. It’s okay. You gotta calm down. We’ll grow more seeds—”

“I WANT _MY_ SEED!”

Alfred’s shriek goes through my head like a nail. As he continues to fight against me, I see Francis dancing around me leaving a trail of clothes in his wake, Matthew trembling as he fights sobs, and Arthur rocking to and fro in his chair in an attempt to contain his panic. _Isolate._ I want to isolate my headache from my head.

“Alright,” I say, full-on Teacher Voice. “Everyone to a corner. Now.”

Matthew scurries over to the reading corner, hugging the biggest pillow. Arthur heads over to my desk, hands flapping against his thighs. Despite my hesitance to release him, Alfred obeys and stomps over to sit with the canary. Francis is the only one who doesn’t listen, so I have to force his clothes back on him yet again and carry him over to the remaining corner. He instantly tries to pull off his shirt, and I take hold of his wrists. “Clothes on,” I tell him, the closest to a growl I’ve ever come with one of my kids. “That’s it.”

He jerks his arms out of my hands, but his clothes stay on.

I step toward the middle of the room, rub a hand down my face, and say, “Okay. Everyone close your eyes and take a deep breath.”

It takes a second, but they do as I tell them.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” I say lightly. “We’re gonna clean up the mess on the floor. We’re gonna get two new jars and two new seeds. Then we’re gonna finish taking our notes and have fifteen minutes of quiet reading.”

And, as if a spell has been cast on the kids, that’s exactly what happens. After they open their eyes they act civilly, hardly speaking to each other, just working together to carefully pick up the glass and put the paper towel in the compost. I leave Arthur and Matthew reading together and take Alfred and Francis to get an apple from the cafeteria. In silence, I cut up the apple and we set up two new jars. Then I turn to Alfred. “Why don’t you join Arthur and Matthew, okay, buddy?”

He nods, and I give his shoulder a little squeeze until he gives me a little smile. Once he’s snuggled up with Matthew, I beckon Francis over to my desk. I carry a chair for him to sit in, beside my own. “You wanna talk about all this?”

He doesn’t look at me. “No.”

I lean forward, elbows on my arms. “Did your uncle do something to upset you?”

His gaze snaps to me, then quickly away. _“No.”_

I’m only guessing, since there are only so many things that can trouble a kid and guardians are pretty much top of the list. “Did you two get in a fight?”

Francis scowls. “No.”

Three no’s in a row. I’m pretty sure that’s a sign. “What did you fight about?”

Francis glares at me with teary eyes. “He has a woman.”

I smile gently. “A girlfriend?”

He nods, arms crossed over his chest, angrily pouting. The portrait of an irked child. But the tears in his eyes tell me this is a lot more than a temper tantrum.

I half-turn away from him and take a sip from my water bottle, because serious conversations are a lot easier to have when you don’t have to look directly at someone. “I bet that takes up a lot of your uncle’s time. That must be really annoying.”

“She’s always talking to him on the phone,” he complains, with the fervor of someone who’s been waiting days to bring something up. “Even when we’re trying to eat, she calls him! And now she comes at night when I’m in bed. I can hear them talking and fucking.”

I try to be charitable. Maybe he only _thinks_ that’s what he’s hearing, when in reality it’s only kissing? But does it even matter at that point? He thinks that’s what’s happening, so it might as well be the case. And besides, Francis is probably better at differentiating intimate sounds than I am.

“That would certainly annoy me,” I tell him. “How are you supposed to sleep when they’re doing that?”

“I _know_ ,” he agrees. “And she wears perfume and the whole place smells like her in the morning. I hate it. It smells like l’engrais.”

I don’t know what that means, but I doubt it’s pleasant. “Have you talked to your uncle about it?”

“No. He doesn’t talk to me anymore.” He hunches down in his chair. “Nobody likes me anymore.”

“Hey.” I turn to look at him now.  “I like you. Everybody in this room does.”

“No you don’t,” he snaps. “You always yell at me. You think I’m stupid.”

I have no idea where that last accusation is coming from; I can only assume it’s because he’s so upset. “I have never thought you’re stupid. In fact, you’re one of the brightest students I’ve ever had. Definitely the most creative. And the only reason I raised my voice is because you were breaking rules. When you break my rules, it’s disrespectful. I don’t like being disrespected. Do you?”

He shrugs grumpily, looking away.

“I know you don’t,” I say. “Because your uncle ignoring you is disrespectful, and I know you don’t like that. Nobody would like to be treated that way.”

He still doesn’t look at me, but his furrowed brow clears a bit to thoughtful sorrow.

“How about I talk to your uncle?” I offer. “Would that prove that I care about you?”

He glances at me, uncertain.

“And we can work together for the rest of the afternoon. Just you and me. Sound good?”

At last, his face brightens, and for the first time he climbs onto my lap with only one intention: a hug. I cuddle him close, and I can feel him shaking a little, maybe trying not to cry. I just rub a hand up and down his back. Now, thinking back, I realize how little attention I’ve given Francis compared to the other students. I’ve given Alfred plenty of lessons on fair versus equal, but is it really that with Francis? Or have I just been afraid to touch him, wary of becoming the sort of adult he might have met in that parlor of his parents’? Or becoming the sort of person that took advantage of Matthew?

I sit with Francis for the next hour and a half. We read, finish his worksheets, then draw together. That’s his favorite, of course, and his work is much nicer than mine. When we hang it up on the board, the other boys come over to see it and shower Francis in praise.

“That’s really pretty!”

“It doesn’t look realistic but it’s still good.”

Even Alfred, bless his live-and-let-live heart, eagerly says, “Woah! Cool! Can you teach me to draw that good sometime?”

Standing behind them, I gesture to the boys and give Francis a _see, I told you_ smile. “Why don’t we have Art for the rest of the day? Francis can be the teacher.”

Matthew grins and Arthur looks concerned—probably worried Francis will give him a bad mark—and Alfred looks amazed a student could be promoted like this. “Let’s make paint! Can we can we can we?”

“If Francis wants to,” I say.

Alfred throws his arms around Francis. “Pleeeeeeeease?”

Francis pats Alfred’s head with the calm fondness of a parent. “Yes.”

By the time Francis’s uncle arrives, Francis and I are still cleaning up the paint. It probably would’ve been finished before now, but I spent too long trying to get blue paint out of Alfred’s hair. (“I am so sorry,” I told his mother, but she just shook her head. “He’s had worse than food coloring in his hair.” I didn’t ask.) “Do you think you could go to the office and ask for the janitor?” I ask Francis, since I don’t really want him listening outside the door while the adults talk. “They might give you a candy, if you ask nicely.”

If Francis recalls my motivation, he gives no sign of it, just makes a kissy face and says, “I can be nice to the secretaries.”

His uncle raises an eyebrow at me, and I wait until Francis is out of the room to laugh. “Quite the lady killer, huh?”

No amusement. “What do you want from me?”

I clear my throat. I don’t offer him a seat, since he’s in the doorway as usual and the only chair big enough for a man is at my desk. “Well, Francis has been acting out this week. I talked to him, and he’s very upset. I think he’s jealous because of your relationship with your girlfriend.”

His flat gaze actually gets some emotion in it, albeit confusion. “She is not girlfriend. Just friend.”

 _Not my business._ “Okay. Either way, though, Francis feels neglected.”

Now his lip twitches as if he’s tasting something sour. “I’m only foster.”

“But . . . you are his uncle, right?”

He nods, with an expression that wonders what that has to do with the topic at hand. And it’s true, blood and family sometimes aren’t the same thing. But I didn’t realize that was the case here.

“Do you—” I hesitate. “Love him?”

“Oui.” Now he looks offended. “But not—I took him because he has no one. Government men, coming to my house—” He shakes his head. “Now I try to be . . . Ugh. No women, no drugs. Because he should have childhood.”

I nod, quiet now. “It’s very admirable, what you’re doing. But he is just a child, and he wishes you would pay him a little more attention.”

The uncle’s gaze shifts to the ceiling. “I already pay too much. I can’t have _girlfriends._ He will get mad, sad. Not his fault, but.” He huffs a defeated sigh. “I don’t know.”

I smile gently. “It must be hard.”

He nods and says, fittingly clear, “I feel trapped, sometimes.”

I think about all the little ideas I had for activities they could do together, and all the little tips I made a list of and the ways I thought of to tactfully bring them up. It’s different when parents _ask_ for this sort of thing. I can call home all I want, but realistically that’s as far as a teacher’s intervention can go. No matter how close we may get to the kids, the parents will always be closer—for better, or for worse. And, well, Francis could definitely have it worse. _He_ has _had it worse,_ I remind myself.

“I understand,” I say, because—in this case, at least—I feel the same way.

 

* * *

 

I’m just zipping up my bag when I hear a knock on my door. I expect to see the janitor again, but instead I find Roderich smiling at me. “May I come in?”

“Don’t see why not,” I reply, amused by his formality.

“I have good news,” Roderich says, and holds his hands out to me.

I take them, but he shakes his head, holding them up between us, palms facing himself. When I still don’t get it, he says, “The divorce is final.”

And I realize he has no ring. I check his eyes for any hidden hysterics, but he just looks calm. “Well, congratulations,” I say, even though it feels a little . . . morbid. “Do you have a court date?”

“Yes, but it’s not for a few months.” A wry smile. “I guess divorce is gaining popularity.”

“Society will have to get rid of the negative connotation.”

“Society could do away with a lot of negative connotations,” Roderich remarks.

“Very true.” His _good news_ mood seems to have dropped off, so I gesture to the paintings still drying on the pods. “Do you like the work of my artists?”

Roderich does a lap to inspect them all. “Did they do this one with their fingers?”

“If it’s blue, yes.”

Roderich is silent, so I go over to stand beside him. He’s fingering the curled edge of one painting with a pensive light in those dark violet eyes. “I’m sorry, but I have to be honest with you. I don’t know how long I can pretend.”

I wonder if I should’ve looked harder for hysterics. “What?”

Roderich sighs. “I want you.”

It’s the first time I’ve heard it said with a tone implying something deeper than sexuality, and I don’t know how to respond to that. “I . . . It’s a bad time—”

“In your life?” Roderich turns to me, one fine eyebrow raised. “Or in society?”

“In society,” I reply, even though I’m not a hundred percent sure.

Roderich takes my hand, which feels at least twice as good as when I took his. “I’d much rather worry about keeping it a secret from everyone than worry about either of us ending up unhappy.”

“Being with me doesn’t guarantee happiness,” I tell him.

Roderich twines our fingers, a helpless light in his eyes. “It has so far.”

As far as I can tell it’s guaranteed separation with his wife. “Are you sure about this?”

That eyebrow rises again. “Do you want me?”

His combination of coyness and confidence slays me. I can’t look away from him. “More than I’ve ever wanted someone,” I tell him honestly. “You’re beautiful. And out of my league.”

“I think you’re handsome regardless of what color your hair is. Or your eyes.” He smiles softly. “I love your eyes, actually. And your eyelashes. They’re just . . . so delicate. It’s so unexpected, someone like you having such tender features. I think it’s lovely.”

_Oh, man._

“I wish I was eloquent enough to, uh, study you like an art piece, but . . .” Trying to think of good words makes my mental thesaurus slam shut. I’m worried an extended pause will make me seem disingenuous, so I say, “Your eyes are great, too. And your skin. And your hair. And your clothes, you have the best fashion sense of anybody in this school.”

Roderich laughs, the most wonderful music, and steps closer to me, so there’s only a few spare inches between us. “Well, thank you.” He presses his lips together, but his smile isn’t flattened. “I’m sorry I started this relationship so poorly. I don’t believe in straddling someone on the first date.”

Now I laugh. “Then maybe we should go back to the beginning.” I gently remove my hand from his and offer it back to him. “Hi. I’m Gil.”

He shakes it. “Hello. I’m Roderich.”

I’m wondering what part of me had the discipline to postpone this so long, because if I’d felt this much happiness before, there’s no way I could have cut it off. “Would you mind if I kissed you?”

Roderich tips his face up a little. “Not at all.”

I cup his face and give him the soft, sweet kiss I’ve wanted to since I first bumped into that elegant body and saw that lovely face. It doesn’t turn into anything beyond that; I don’t stroke his waist, he doesn’t wrap a leg around me, neither of us make a sound. We just kiss, for ten or twenty or thirty seconds, and then we pull apart, get our things, and walk out to our cars. We don’t even hold hands.

That’s all I have to offer in self-defense.

 

* * *

 

The next day, the principal is waiting for me outside the office. It’s rare to see him out of his private office, especially this early in the morning, so dread is already trickling when I recognize him. Then, when he says, “I think you should come in and have a little chat with me,” in that chilly, faux-friendly way he’s mastered, a floodgate of fear crashes open inside me.

Roderich is already in his office. He glances up when I come in, and I see his eyes widen. That’s the part I’ll remember: the shift from surprise to terror in his eyes, with that dark shade of doubt over it all. Doubt, like _No, surely not. It can’t be that. Anything but that._

The principal sits down and clasps his hands on top of his desk. “Well. I’ve never been one to mince words, so let’s not. I’ve been informed of the inappropriate act you two committed yesterday, on school grounds. Personally, I find it filthy. Professionally, I find it unacceptable.”

I want to hold Roderich’s hands, because I can see them trembling slightly in his lap, but I can’t move. I can barely breathe. Who could’ve seen us? The kids were dismissed, but some stay to play outside for a while after school. One of them, peeking through the window? Or the janitor, watching from the doorway? I’ll never know. All of them sicken me. _Shame_ me, and for what? For kissing someone?

The principal regards us with emotionless eyes. “Given your lifestyle choices, I don’t think either of you should be working with children.”

It takes me a second. Always the way, right? When your doctor spews jargon at you, you don’t instantly get it. It takes you a moment to put it together: _oh. You’re telling me I’m going to die._

“You can’t fire me,” I say, and hate how thin my voice sounds, like this is a mild inconvenience. “Matthew still doesn’t talk regularly. He needs me.”

“Considering the things you’ve been teaching them to say,” the principal tells me while looking me in the eye, “they’re better off in silence.”

I hear a whimper, and I realize Roderich is crying. It takes all of my power to stay in this chair and not punch my employer—ex-employer—in the fucking face. I’m already fired, what’s the worst that could happen? Jail, that’s what. He’s already ruined my life. I can’t ruin it more on top of that. What will that prove?

“I haven’t even chosen who’ll be mainstreamed,” I force out.

“Based on their marks, your replacement will decide.” The principal gestures to the door. “Now, I suggest you gather your things and leave, before the children arrive. It will be easier that way.”

_Fuck that._

Roderich cracks more and more with each step until at last he shatters in the music room. I hold him, even though I feel like I’m about to faint and I can’t console myself let alone someone else. What am I going to do now? What about the _kids_? I can’t think. Nothing has ever been so colossally fucked.

“I don’t—” Roderich sniffles, looks up at me. “Do we go to the police?”

I shake my head. “They won’t do anything.” I don’t even know if my _friends_ would do anything. Would they help me? Or would they agree with the principal? I have no idea. I’ve come close to telling Ludwig and Mikkel over the years, but I’ve never brought myself to do it. _For exactly this reason._ Goddamn it. I’m not the person who _hates_ like this. I crush Roderich to me and take a deep breath. He doesn’t protest, just hugs me back as tight as he can. I rest my cheek against his hair. “I need to say goodbye to the boys. They can’t take that from me.”

“They might try,” Roderich warns, in a tiny voice that pinches my heart.

 _Nobody’s that evil._ I frame his face in my hands. “Are you alright for now?”

He nods, fighting to compose himself. “Yes. I have to . . . I have to find my papers.”

I leave him to it and head to my classroom. It’s just like any other morning. I turn the lights on, change the canary’s water and seeds. _This is the last time I’ll walk in this room._ The paintings still lying on the pods nearly make me burst into tears, but I clench my jaw until it passes. I’m not losing it until I’m out of this building.

“Oh.”

I turn. A sub—the replacement, I guess—is standing in the doorway. She’s a nice old lady, and she’s looking at me with cold disgust. “You’re here.”

“Yes, I am,” I agree, and take pride in how viciously cold my voice sounds. “I’m here to say goodbye and get my things. I doubt you’d want to use them, after I did.”

There’s a word both of us are thinking of, but neither of us say it. I won’t taint my classroom with it, and neither will she. She just says, “Do it quick.”

Honestly, I have no idea what to take. What do you take when you’re being evacuated in a crisis situation? Canned food? Blankets? Pictures of your family? _Things to remember them by._ So leave the dolls and most of the supplies—what can I do with them, now?—and I take a matchbox car, a hair ribbon, and a penny. When I try to pick up the maple leaf Matthew gave me in October, it crumbles. Now I really have to fight tears. I can’t believe this is happening.

“Morning, Gil!”

I close my eyes for a moment. Oh, I want to tell Alfred’s mother to take him away. Or, better yet, grab him and the others and take them someplace where things like this won’t affect their lives. But I can’t. I turn and force a smile for him. “Hey, there, buddy.”

His smile falters when he sees the sub. “How come she’s here?”

I’m worried if I put my arm around him she’ll protest, so I say, “Let’s just sit here and wait for the others, okay? I have something I have to tell you all.”

Waiting for them all to arrive is like waiting for the executioner to sharpen his blade. When I have them all in front of me, four little faces looking up at me, I don’t want to say it. They trust me not to say such terrible things. They trust me to be a constant in their lives. And now . . .

“I’m sorry, guys,” I tell them. “I—I have to go away.”

Matthew and Arthur look frightened, but Alfred gives me the benefit of the doubt: “When’ll you be back?”

 _Don’t make me do this._ “I won’t be coming back. I have to go forever.”

And with that, they lose it. “No! You can’t!” Alfred cries. Matthew _does_ cry, so hard he can’t speak. Arthur vibrates in place, hands flapping, and says, “You’re our teacher. You have to stay. We have to have a teacher and you’re our teacher.” Only Francis just looks at me with quiet despair: _“Please.”_

I clear my throat and nod in the direction of the lady, who’s watching me with narrowed eyes. “She’ll be your teacher today. You may have several new teachers.” Because I doubt they’ll be able to find a special education teacher on such short notice.

Matthew and Alfred cling to my legs, both of them sobbing, pleading. When I try to detach them I realize Arthur is holding my hand, a vice grip on three of my fingers and endless tears streaming down his face from those bright, agonized eyes. If my world feels like it’s ending, how does his feel? I can’t bring myself to pull my hand free. “I’m sorry, Arthur. You’ll be okay. I promise.”

Then, to my surprise, Francis takes Arthur’s fingers off mine and squeezes them tight. “Gil has to go,” he says. “We can’t make him stay.” I wonder if he took it like this when his parents were ripped from him, or if he’s grown from it and recognizes it in his classmates. He puts his free arm around Matthew and looks up at me. “I’ll take care of the little kids.”

I can only nod. “Thank you, Francis.”

“Alrightie, sweeties,” says the old lady, sickeningly saccharine. “Let’s get started with learning a new word—”

“NO!” Arthur shouts, whirling on her. “We start with discussion time!”

Her brow drops low on beady eyes. “We don’t interrupt or raise our voices in my classroom—”

“No,” I cut in. “You don’t understand.”

She pushes the canary’s cage into my chest. “You don’t work here. I suggest you leave.”

I have to back up into the hall; otherwise I’m using my weight against a little old lady. “But—he’s autistic, he needs routine— _please_ , just let me—”

The door closes in my face.

I listen for something, screams or anything, but the silence is almost worse. I let my forehead rest against the door, eyes closed. The canary coos softly.

I only move when Roderich gently draws me away.

 

* * *

 

“News or sports?”

I roll a little to look up at Roderich. “I didn’t think you liked sports.”

His free hand strokes my hair. “I don’t.”

I face the television again. His lap makes a wonderful pillow. “Don’t torture yourself on my account.”

“It is good to stay updated on current events,” he remarks lightly, and I grab his hand from my head, mostly just so I can hold it. There still isn’t a ring on his finger. It’s only been two weeks; I’m not even living with him full-time yet, though I might have to soon, with the rent. Roderich has the advantage of wealthy parents. I’ve told him several times I don’t want to use him, but he won’t hear it. _You aren’t using me. Where would you be, if not here?_ I’d be on Ludwig’s couch, or Mikkel’s. _Would you feel guilty for using them?_ Probably not. Not at first, anyway. I still haven’t told them the full details of why I was fired, just used the safer umbrella of _conflicting politics._ Ludwig said it was a violation of rights, but I couldn’t do anything more than shrug. I’ve been doing my best to not think about it all, and that works for about twelve hours of the day. Nights, though, I’m tortured.

And no, Roderich and I don’t share a bedroom. I’m in his spare room. I can’t bring myself to touch him like that, not yet. All I can see are the principal’s cold eyes, and that is a great way to ruin the mood.

Neither of us have started working again. The past two weeks have been like a dream, or a nightmare, or a hallucination. Nothing feels particularly real. You don’t realize how much you rely on the routine of your life, until it ends and you feel like an actor who fell off the stage.

A name on the newscaster’s lips takes me out of my thoughts. I lift my head. It can’t be. But it is.

_“Police are looking for missing seven-year-old boy Matthew Williams. He was last seen at his foster home, leaving to walk to his elementary school. He never arrived. If you have seen him or know anything about his possible whereabouts, you are asked to notify the authorities.”_

Matthew. The only boy of the four who never acted out, always listened the first time I spoke, has run away from home? _He must have been taken._ But by who? And why now, not earlier in the year? And who could have snatched him up on the short walk to school? _Someone_ would have seen it. But if they just saw him walking in a different direction than his usual, they might not think anything of it. Why now? _Because of me._ I hope it’s because of me, and not because of anything his new teachers are doing, or some new member of his foster family, or . . . Regardless, if he’s running away from negative feelings, he’ll be searching for positive ones. But if his family hasn’t found him yet—

I bolt upright.

Roderich looks at me with concerned eyes. “Gil, I’m sorry.”

“No.” I squeeze his hands. “I know where he is.”

 

* * *

 

The maple farm feels so much bigger in spring. The sky is almost blotted out by all the green leaves, and there are birds singing everywhere though I only see a few sparrows. I don’t waste time going to the refinery and trying to find a worker; I run into the trees, searching for anything vaguely familiar to guide me. Imagining it covered in snow makes me sadness swell in my throat. Nostalgia?

“Matthew!” I call, because if he hears me he might meet me halfway. _Or he might turn and run._ I can’t bear the thought. “Matthew!”

At last, the tree house. I almost miss it, behind the devouring leaves; I only notice the ladder on the trunk. All of it is made for someone smaller than me, so climbing is maddeningly slow. Once I can pull myself up inside, though—two little plastic chairs bleached by the sun, a collection of spotted leaves littering the floor, and in the corner. Curled up in a ball.

“Matthew,” I say, my voice breaking.

He sits up and hurls himself at me so hard I almost fall over backward. I hug him so tight he squeaks, then take off my jacket and wrap him up in it because the spring air has reddened the tip of his little nose. “You had me pretty scared,” I say into his curls, holding him close again. All of the things that could have happened to him.

“You,” Matthew whimpers, blinking through tears. “You left, too.”

I can’t even begin to describe how it feels to have those three words break every last piece of my heart.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell him, my own tears starting to fall. “There was nothing I could do, sweetheart. I really didn’t want to go. I had to.” I rub his back through both our coats, up and down. “I wish I could come back. I’d do it in a heartbeat, if I could. I miss you all so much.”

“I miss you,” he says miserably, trembling against me. “I wanna go home with you.”

I smooth down his curls. “I wish you could.” Single men have a hard enough time adopting children, lat alone two unemployed guys living together, and what if the agency looked into why I was fired? Impossible. “We’ll keep in touch. Even if we have to write letters. You’ll be able to tell me how you’re doing, and Alfred and Arthur and Francis.” Hesitantly, I ask, “How have things been? Is your new teacher okay?”

Matthew sniffles. “I guess so. Arthur doesn’t like her. He went scary like when the fire alarm went off.”

 _No._ “Is he better now?”

“Yeah. The next day he was okay again.” He tries to touch my face, but his hands are lost inside the sleeves of my jacket. “I miss reading with you. She lets me read with Francis ’cause he asked her if we could.”

At least she cares that much, then. And I shouldn’t be so unrealistic. That sub has worked with my class before; she’s compassionate enough to handle special needs children. I know she won’t do anything too devastating to the boys. But still . . .

Matthew buries his face in my neck. “I don’t want to go to school without you.”

I take a deep breath and reach for the same wisdom Roderich gave me: “Eleven years. Just wait eleven years, then you’ll be graduated and you can do whatever you want.”

Matthew pulls back to look up at me with daunted violet eyes. “That’s forever.”

“It’ll come faster than you think,” I assure him. “And I’ll be there. Promise.”

He wraps his arms around my neck, so I hold him to me with one arm and climb down the ladder with the other. Neither of us says a word as I carry him through the maple trees and back to my car. I’m tempted to bring Matthew home for supper, but I can’t do that to his foster parents. So I drive him to the house and hold his little hand as we walk up the front steps.

His mother answers the door, with Michelle close on her heels. Both of them throw their arms around Matthew, crying happy tears and bawling, “Where have you been?”

“It’s okay,” Matthew says. “I went to the tree farm.”

His foster mother freezes, eyes wide. She stands up straight, letting Matthew and Michelle catch up, and looks at me. “That’s the first time he’s spoken since you were . . .”

I smile, even though I can feel how pitiful it looks. “I’d love to visit him, if I could have permission. Or call, maybe, or write letters. Something.”

Uncertainty enters her gaze. “The principal said some, um, unflattering things about you.”

“Some people are better off in silence,” I reply wearily.

She regards me for a long moment, then pats my shoulder. “You can visit. My husband is still so grateful for the help you gave Matthew. So am I. We can tell how happy you make him, and I couldn’t make myself keep happiness from him.”

I have to keep myself from hugging her, because that probably wouldn’t go over the greatest. “Thank you so much. You don’t know—”

She gives me a small smile. “Yes, I do.”

For a split second I find myself wishing I was still four feet tall and the safest place in the world was still the warm arms of a parent figure. Then I nod gratefully to her and turn to the kids. “I’ll see you soon, buddy.”

Of course, Matthew gives me one last hug. I take my jacket back, but I don’t put it on; as I walk back out into the sunlight, I feel nothing but warmth.

 

* * *

 

“Psst! Gil!”

“Alfred,” I chide quietly, trying to find Matthew in the herd of gowned students onstage. Is that him? No—there, the pale golden curls tucked behind his ears, mostly covered by his cap. I can see he’s nervous, but happy too; he’s smiling and chatting quietly with the girl beside him. The principal is on her way to the podium up front; within seconds, we’re all hushed. Except one.

“Gil,” Alfred says again, and I turn to quiet him, but before I can Arthur thumps the back of Alfred’s head and gives him a severely dark look. Francis and I exchange a half-stifled grin. Alfred pushes a disposable camera into my hands and whispers, “You can see better than me.”

I accept the camera, but whisper into his ear, “Admit it, tough guy: you need your glasses.”

He grimaces, because he’s the only player on his team who wears glasses, but he smiles easily enough when I give his shoulder a playful nudge.

I take some pictures of Matthew sitting in place onstage, then some more when he goes up to the podium to accept his diploma and scholarships. Alfred squirms, but he’s a lot better at sitting still these days—and he’s a lot louder. At the end of the ceremony when they all throw their caps in the air, Alfred leaps up and cheers, “WOOHOO MATTIE BOY!” I lean to make sure Arthur’s alright, but Francis had counted down to the applause with him, so he’s safe with his hands over his ears.

It takes us a few minutes to find Matthew in the mayhem that follows. Mikkel and Lucy are already with him, the proudest parents here. Matthew allows a kiss on each cheek from his mom and a hearty back-slapping hug from his dad. When he sees us, he gives us an ear-to-ear grin.

I hug him, with less vigor than Mikkel did. “Good job, buddy. You did great.”

Alfred tugs on his honors sash. “Your hat messed up your hair, show-off.”

Matthew raises an eyebrow. “You can be a show-off too if you spend more time reading and less time kicking a ball.” He ruffles Alfred’s hair, to top it all off.

“Hey!” Alfred’s eyes go wide with panic. “There’s girls around! Fran, fix it quick!”

Francis smooths Alfred’s hair back down, amused. “You brought it on your—”

“Excuse me.”

We all glance, but Arthur isn’t talking to us. A girl bumped into him but doesn’t seem to notice, just follows her friends away. Arthur watches her go, then brushes his sleeve until he’s sure it’s perfectly straight, then says, “How impolite.”

“Really,” Francis agrees, indulgent. “What animals.”

“Oh, look.” Lucy points in the direction the girls went. “They’re taking pictures over there. Wouldn’t you like to have one, Matthew?”

Matthew glances at me, both of us thinking the same thing: _I’d really love to have another photo of my beautiful son, please have one taken, darling._ Matthew has never declined his mother anything, and neither has Alfred, for that matter. He grabs Matthew’s arm. “Yeah, let’s all be in it, c’mon!”

We all go over to the photographer and wait while teens pose with silly props and make bunny ears behind each others’ heads. When it’s our turn, Francis steps close to the photographer. “Could we do this without flash, please?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” the photographer says. “The exposure might be a bit off.”

“That’s okay,” Matthew says quickly, while Francis smiles and replies, “Thank you.” Then he turns to Arthur, murmuring, “No flash. One to ten?” to which Arthur says, “Two,” and Francis smiles. “Eyes up, remember.” Arthur makes an irritable sound, but doesn’t protest when Francis puts his hand on his waist.

It won’t be quite as hard for them as it has been for me. Things are dark, right now; people are terrified of an autoimmune disease none of us understand, and the unknown is dangerous. Still, I have a feeling people will calm down. Sometimes I question it, but on the whole I’m optimistic about Francis and Arthur’s future. And Alfred’s. And Matthew’s. And you might as well add my own to the list, as well. I think Mikkel and Ludwig have their suspicions, but Roderich and I are still only housemates on paper. He’s opened up a music shop and started composing some evenings; I’ve woken up at two a.m. to find him drawing shy brilliance from his piano. As for me, I’ve been working with special needs adults instead. It isn’t terrible, but it’s definitely not the same as a classroom. Still, things could be much worse.

“Gil!” Alfred cries, interrupting my reverie.

I raise an inquiring brow, and Matthew beckons. “You have to be in it, too.”

I glance at Mikkel and Lucy, but they both nod to me, Mikkel teasing, “Don’t let us grown-ups cramp your style.”

So I stand behind the kids. Only Alfred is nearing my height, with Matthew a few inches behind. Arthur and Francis haven’t had any growth spurts, just slow and steady. I can’t look at them without seeing them clinging to my legs, holding three of my fingers, looking up at me with those bright young eyes. I’ve gotten in touch with some of my other students over the years, but these four I’ve stuck with. I can’t help it. They’re special.

The photographer glances up from his camera. “Are you a parent?”

“No.” I put my arms around my kids and smile. “I’m a teacher.”

 

_The End._


End file.
